LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

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Shelf 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




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Ieisure Hours 



One Hundred and Fifty Sketches, with Pen and Pencil, 
for Home Entertainment. 



ppofeiltelGj lllcai>tpated 



By Bays, Hackee, Poole, HAiiSWELL, Harris, Pettie, 

StIELER, WAIiTEES, ETC. 

iiUAm,^"^"''-' ^' ( OCT 121889^ 

EDITED BY -. '•^•'■^SMllvGTOf*' '^ 

DAPHNE DALE. p-ja4ii^c(.j 



ELLIOTT & BEEZLEY, 

PHIIiADELPHIA AND CHICAGO. 

1889. 



TI? 



0^ 



3 4-5" 



COPTEIGHT, 1889, 
BY 

ELLIOTT & BEEZLEY. 



Manufactured by 

ELLIOTT & BEEZLEY. 

CH:cAao iNB Philadelphia 



List of Illustrations. 



A^lone Josef Israels 95 1' 

Cauglit Tripping A. W. Bayes Ill ^ 

Fruitless Labor -R. Grayling 150 

First Troubles of a Young Artist Eugene Slieler 61 

Forbidden Book, The M. Karel Ooms 182 

Great BlackbiUed GuU 253 

Going Out for the Night J. Poole 19 

Head of the River, The Keeley Hnlsicelle 368 

If Thou Hadst Known W. B. Hole 75 

■ Longfellow ^^ 

Meeting of the School Trustees Robert Harris 05 

Mother, The Arthur Hacker 48 

Owl, The 136 

Our Old Grandmother B. F. Rentel 167 

Prisoner of Chillon, The W. Daniels 31 

Swallows, The 294 

Two Strings to her Bow John Pettie 229 

Toilers of the Sea G. S. Walters 13 

Thrush, The 284 

Teal, The 285 

Vesuvius 239 

World Forgetting L. C. Hensley 215 



Contents, 



ALONE Robert Burdett 203 
Advice to a Would-Be Criminal Victor Hugo 55 

American Indian, The George Bancroft 297 

Autocrat of the Breakfast Table 0. W. Holmes 69 

Alone E. S. Robertson 94 

At the Open Window B. F. Taylor 153 

And Such a Change B. F. Taylor 154 

BEAUTY Ralph Waldo Emerson 223 
Buds and Bird Voices. Nathaniel Hawthorne 282 

Birds Pairing in Spring James Thompson 295 

Brier Kose Hjalmer H. Boyesen 317 

Blind Preacher, The William Wirt 354 

CANDID Man, The Lord Lytton 245 
Children, The Chas. Dickenson (j4 

Children and their Education Horace Mann 115 

Change of Matter Yeomnns 114 

Christianity Charles Phillips 183 

Cloud, The 353 

TvOG Days Gail Hamilton 371 

E LEONORA Edgar A. Poe 185 
English Language William Mathews 359 

Evening "Walk in Virginia J. K. Paulding 198 

FALL of the Leaf, The John Ruskin 98 
First Grandchild, The Annie E. Preston 324 

GRAVE, The Washington Irving 180 
Glass of Cold Water, A J. B. Gough 58 

Good Man's Day, A Bishop Hall 81 

Gentle Hands T. S. Arthur 256 

Goodrich Jones, Jr., To J. G. Holland 204 



CONTENTS. 



HAPPINESS of Temper Goldsmith 163 
How Curious It Is H. P. Shillaber 109 

Heart Beneath a Stone, A Victor Hugo 195 

Happiness in Solitude J. J. Roaseau 274 

Happiness Colton 22 

Head-Stone, Tlie Wilson 315 

Home T. S. Arthur 102 

Head of the Kiver, The 370 

INDIAN Summer B.F.Taylor 37 

J- In the Garret Knickerbocker 177 

Increased Love of Life with Age Ooldsmith 272 

JOAN OF ARC Thos. De Quincy 278 
Jerusalem Benj. Disraeli 73 

T^NEE-DEEP in June James Whitcomb Riley 105 

LETTERS Donald G. Mitchell 160 
Little Reader, The Robert Burdett 322 

Last Days of Pompeii Lord Lytlon . . .238 

Lilly's Ride Judge Tourgee 327 

MOTHER'S Love, A 335 
Musing by the Fire B.F. Taylor 156 

Marriage Jeremy Taylor 157 

Mother's Bible, My 233 

Mocking Bird, The Wilson 235 

Maxims of Washington Washington 131 

Music of Child Laughter, The Robt. Ingersoll 23 

Mother's Picture Wm. Cowper 51 

Mother's Vacant Chair Talmage , 360 

Musical Instrument, A E. B. Browning 151 

YTAPOLEON BONAPARTE Victor Hugo 193 

OUR Revolutionary Fathers Daniel Webster 144 
Our Old Grandmother 165 

Our Burdens Addison 172 

Old Runaways Jane Marsh Parker 260 

Of Beauty Lord Bacon 326 

Old Age Theodore Parker 339 

On Revenge Samuel Johnson 337 



CONTENTS. 



Order in Nature Yeomans 358 

Omens Sir Humphrey Davy 219 

Old Age Emerson 224 

Old Stocking-Mender, The 225 

Old-FasMoned Mother, The B. F. Taylor 49 

Old Canoe, The 270 

Owl, The Barry Cornwall 137 

Old Church-Yard, The MacDonald 101 

POETRY and Mystery of the Sea Dr. Greenwood 11 
Plea for the Erring, A William Mathews 24 

Pictures of Swiss Scenery Ruskin 80 

Prisoner of Chillon, The Byron 29 

Poor Eichard Dr. Franklin 39 

Precipices of the Alps Ruskin 98 

Puritans, The T. B. Macaulay 110 

Pictures H. P. Shillaber 130 

Parents T. S. Arthur 262 

Prosperity and Adversity Lord Bacon 334 

Progress of Sin, The Jeremy Taylor 341 

Paradise on Earth, A Victor Hugo 192 

Personality and Uses of a Laugh 218 

RUKAL Life in Sweden Longfellow 86 
Rural Life in England, Irving 138 

Rebecca's Description of the Seige Sir W. Scott 345 

SPIDER and the Bee, The Jonathan Swift 266 
Sky, The Ruskin 99 

Sky Lark, The Jeremy Taylor 159 

Schoolmaster, The Verplanck 59 

Silent Forces Tyndall 85 

Studies Lord Bacon 325 

Sayings of the Sages 375 

TRAMP, Tramp, Tramp J. O. Holland 211 
They are All Gone Henry Vaughan . 214 

Thoughts on Various Subjects Jonathan Swift 343 

Treasures of the Deep, The Felicia Hemans IS 

Three Fishers, The Chas. Kingsley 21 

VOICES of the Dead ..E. H. Chapin 311 
Voiceless, The , 0. W. Holmes 32 



CONTENTS. 



WOMAN'S Forever, A 201 
Woman's Shortcomings, A E. Browning 228 

When Baby and I were Together 232 

Wonders of an Atom Hunt 234 

White Wings E. Nesbit 255 

Work Carlyle 361 

Works of Creation, The Addison 288 

When Bessie Died Jas. W. Riley 94 




Leisure Hours. 



Poetry and Mystery of the Sea. 



"The sea is His, and He made it," cries the Psalmist of Israel, 
in one of those bursts of enthusiasm in which he so often expresses 
tlie whole of a vast subi><'.t by a few simple words. Whose else, 
indeed, could it be, and by Trhom else could it have been made? 
Who else can heave its tides and appoint its bounds? Who else can 
urge its mighty waves to madness Avith the breath and wings of the 
temj)est, and then speak to it again in a master's accents and bid it 
be still? Wlio else could have peopled it with its coimtless inhabit- 
ants, and caused it to bring forih its various productions, and filled 
it from its deepest bed to its expanded surface, fihed it from its cen- 
ter to its remotest shores, fiUed it to the brim Arith beauty, and 
mystury, and power? Majestic ocean! Gloiious sea! No created 
being rules thee or made thee. 

Wliat is there more subhme than the trackless, desert, aU- sur- 
rounding, unfathomable sea? What is there more peacefully sublime 
than the calm, gentle-heaving, silent sea? What is there more terri- 
bly sublime than the angry, dashing, foaming sea? Power — resist- 
less, overwhelming power — is its attribute and its expression, whether 
in the careless, conscious grandeur of its deep rest, or the wild tumult 
of its excited wrath. It is awful when its crested waves rise up to 
make a compact with the black clouds and the howling winds, 
and the thunder and the thunderbolt, and they sweep on, in the 



12 LEISURE HOURS. 



joy of their dread alliance, to do the Almighty's bidding. And 
it is awful, too, when it stretches its broad level out to meet in 
quiet union the bended sky, and show in the Hne of meeting the vast 
rotundity of the world. There is majesty in its wide expanse, sep- 
arating and enclosing the great continents of the earth, occupying 
two-thirds of the whole sitrface of the globe, penetrating the land 
with its bays and secondary seas, and receiving the constantly pour- 
ing tribute of every river of every shore. There is majesty in its 
fulness, never diminishing, and never increasing. There is majesty 
in its integrity, for its whole vast substance is uniform in its local 
unity, for there is but one ocean, and the inhabitants of any one 
maritime spot may visit the inhabitants of any other in the wide 
world. Its depth is subhme; who can sound it? Its strength is 
subhme; what fabric of ma,n can resist it? Its voice is sublime, 
whether in the prolonged song of its ripple or the stern music of its 
roar — whether it utters its hollow and melancholy tones within a 
labyrinth of wave-worn caves, or thunders at the base of some huge 
promontory, or beats against a toUing vessel's sides, lulling the 
voyager to rest with the strains of its wild monotony, or dies away 
with the calm and fading twihght, in gentle murmurs on some shel- 
tered shore. 

The sea possesses beauty in richness of its own ; it borrows it 
from earth, and air, and heaven. The clouds lend it the various 
dyes of their wardrobe, and throw down upon it the broad masses 
of their shadows as they go saihng and sweeping by. The rainbow 
laves in it its many-colored feet. The sun loves to visit it, and the 
moon, and the ghttering brotherhood of planets and stars, for they 
dehght themselves in its beauty. The sunbeams return from it in 
showers of diamonds and glances of fire ; the moonbeams find in it 
a pathway of silver, where they dance to and fro with the breezes 
and the waves, through the livelong night. It has a light, too, of 
its own, — a soft and sparkling hght, rivahng the stars; and often 
does the ship which cuts its surface leave streaming behind a milky 
way of dim and uncertain luster, Uke that which is shining dimly 



POETEY AND MYSTEEY OS" THE SEA. 15 

above. It harmonizes in its forms and sounds both Avith the night 
and the day. It cheerfully reflects the hght, and it unites solemnly 
with the darkness. It imparts sweetness to the music of men, and 
grandeur to the thunder of heaven. What landscape is so beaxitiful 
as one upon the borders of the sea? The spirit of its loveliness is 
from the waters where it dwells and rests, singing its spells and 
scattering its charms on all the coasts. What rocks and cliffs are 
so glorious as those which are washed by the chafing sea? What 
groves and fields and dwellings are so enchanting as those which 
stand by the reflecting sea? 

If we could see the great ocean as it can be seen by no mortal 
eye, beholding at one view what we are now obhged to visit in detail 
and spot by spot, — if we could, from a flight far higher than the 
eagle's, view the immense surface of the deep all spread out beneath 
us like a universal chart — what an infinite variety such a scene 
would display ! Here a storm would be raging, the thunder burst- 
ing, the waters boUing, and rain and foam and fire all mingling 
together; and here, next to this scene of magnificent confusion, we 
should see the bright blue waves ghttering m the sun and clapping 
their hands for very gladness. Here we should see a cluster of green 
islands set hke jewels in the bosom of the sea; and there we should 
see broad shoals and gray rocks, fretting the billows and threaten- 
ing the mariner. Here we discern a ship propelled by the steady 
mnd of the tropics, and inhaling the almost visible odors which 
diffuse themselves around the Spice Islands of the east; there we 
should behold a vessel piercing the cold barrier of the north, strug- 
ghng among hills and fields of ice, and contending with Winter in 
his own everlasting dominion. Nor are the ships of man the only 
travelers we shall perceive upon this mighty map of the ocean. 
Flocks of sea-birds are passing and re-passing, diving for their food 
or for pastime, migrating from shore to shore with unwearied wing 
and undeviating instinct, or wheeling and swarming around the 
rocks which they make ahve and vocal by their numbers and their 
clanging cries- 



16 LEISUEB HOURS. 



We shall behold new wonders and riches when we inves- 
tigate the sea-shore. We shall find both beauty for the eye and food 
for the body, in the varieties of shell-fish which adhere in myriads 
to the rocks or form their close, dark burrows in the sands. In 
some parts of the world we shall see those houses of stone which 
the little coral insect rears up with patient industry from the bot- 
tom of the waters, till they grow into formidable rocks, and broad 
forests, whose branches never wave and whose leaves never fall. In 
other parts we shall see those pale, glistening pearls which adorn 
the crowns of princes and are woven in the hair of beauty, extorted 
by the relentless grasp of man from the hidden stores of ocean. 
And spread round every coast there are beds of flowers and thickets 
of plants, which the dew does not nourish, and which man has not 
sown, nor cultivated, nor reaped, but which seem to belong to the 
floods alone and the denizens of the floods, until they are thrown 
up by the surges, and we discover that even the dead spoils of the 
fields of ocean may fertilize and enrich the fields of earth. 
They have a life, and a nourishment, and an economy of their own ; 
and we know little of them except that they are there in their briny 
nurseries, reared iip into luxuriance by what would kiU, hke a mor- 
tal poison, the vegetation of the land. 

There is mystery in the sea. There is mystery in its depths. 
It is unfathomed and perhaps unfathomable. Who can teU, who 
shall know, how near its pits run down to the central core of the 
world? Who can tell what weUs, what fountains are there to 
which the fountains of the earth are but drops ? Who shaU say 
whence the ocean derives those inexhaustible suppHes of salt which 
so impregnate its waters that aU the rivers of the earth, pouring 
into it from the time of the creation, have not been able to freshen 
them? What undescribed monsters, what unimaginable shapes, 
may be roving in the profoundest places of the sea, never seeking — 
and perhaps, from their nature, never able to seek — the upper waters 
and expose themselves to the gaze of man ! What glittering riches, 
what heaps of gold, what stores of gems there must be scattered in 



POETRY AND MYSTERY OF THE SEA. 17 

lavish profusion in the ocean's lowest bed! What spoils from all 
climates, what works of art from all lands, have been engulfed by 
the insatiable and reckless waves ! Who shall go down to examine 
and reclaim this uncounted and idle wealth ? Who bears the keys 
of the deep ? 

And oh ! yet more affecting to the heart, and mysterious to the 
mind, what companies of human beings are locked up in that wide, 
weltering, unsearchable grave of the sea ! Where are the bodies of 
those lost ones over whom the melancholy waves alone have been 
chanting requiem? What shrouds were wrapped round the Hmbs 
of beauty, and of manhood, and of placid infancy, when they were 
laid on the dark floor of that secret tomb? Where are the bones, 
the rehcs of the brave and the timid, the good and the bad, the 
parent, the child, the wife, the husband, the brother, the sister, the 
lover, which have been tossed and scattered and buried by the wash- 
ing, wasting, wandering sea? The journeying winds may sigh as 
year after year they pass over their beds. The sohtary rain cloud 
may weep in darkness over the mingled remains which lie strewed 
in that unwonted cemetery. But who shall tell the bereaved to 
what spot their affections may cling? And where shall human tears 
be shed throughout that solemn sepulchre? It is mystery all. 
When shall it be resolved? Who shall find it out? Who but He 
to whom the wildest waves listen reverently, and to whom all nature 
bows; He who shall one day speak and be heard in ocean's pro- 
foundest caves; to whom the deep, even the lowest deep, shall give 
up its dead, when the sun shall sicken, and the earih and the isles 
shall languish, and the heavens be rolled together like a scroll, and 
there shall be no more Ssa. 




18 ' tEISURE HOURS. 



The Treasures of the Deep. 

What hid'st thou in thy treasure-caves and cells, 
Thou hollow- sounding and mysterious maia?- 

Pale glistening pearls and rainbow-color'd shells, 

Bright things which gleam unreck'd-of and in vain ! — 

Keep, keep thy mches, melancholy sea! 

We ask not such from thee. 

Yet more, the depths have more! — what wealth untold, 
Par down, and shining through their stillness lies! 

Thou hast the starry gems, the burning gold, 
Won from ten thousand royal argosies! — 

Sweep o'er thy spoils, thou wild and wrathful main ! 

Earth claims not these again. 

Yet more, the depths have more ! thy waves have roU'd 

Above the cities of a world gone by; 
Sand has fill'd up the palaces of old. 

Sea-weed o'ergrown the halls of revelry. 
Dash o'er them, Ocean, in thy scornful play! 
Man yields them to decay. 

Yet more, the billows and the depths have more ! 

High hearts and brave are gather'd to thy breast! 
They hear not now the booming waters roar, 

The battle thunders will not break their rest — 
Keep thy red gold and gems, thou stormy grave ! 
Give back the true and brave I 

Give back the lost and lovely ! those for whom 

The place was kept at board and hearth so long ! 

The prayer went up through midnight's breathless gloom, 
And the vain yearning woke midst festal song ! 




GOING OUT rOK THE NIGHT. 



THE THREE FISHERS. 21 



Hold fast thy buried isles, thy towers o'erthrown, — - 
But all is not thine own. 

To thee the love of woman hath gone down, 

Dark flow thy tides o'er manhood's noble head, 

O'er youth, 3 bright locks, and beauty's flowry crown. 
Yet thou must hear a voice,- — Eestore the dead! 

Earth shall reclaim her precious things from thee ! — 

Eestore the dead, thou sea! 



The Three Fishers. 

Three fishers went sailing away to the west, 
Away to the west as the sun went down ; 

Each thought on the woman who loved him best, 

And the children stood watching them out of the town ; 

For men must work, and women must weep; 

And there's little to earn, and many to keep, 
Though the harbor be moaning. 

Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower. 

And they trimm'd the lamps as the sun went down ; 

They look'd at the squall, and they looked at the shower. 
And the night-rack came roUing up ragged and brown; 

But men must work, and women must weep, 

Though storms be sudden, and waters deep. 
And the harbor bar be moaning. 

Three corpses lay out on the shining sands 

In the morning gleam as the tide went down, 

And the women are weeping and wringing their hands 
For those who will never come home to the town; 

For men must work, and women must weep. 

And the sooner it's over, the sooner to sleep, — 
And good-bye to the bar and its moaning. 



22 LEISURE HOUES. 



Happiness. 

She is deceitful as the cahn that precedes the hurricane, smooth 
as the water on the verge of the cataract, and beautiful as the rain- 
bow, that smiling daughter of the storm ; but, hke the mirage in 
the desert, she tantahzes us with a delusion that distance creates 
and that contiguity destroys. Yet, when unsought, she is often 
found, and when unexpected, often obtained; whUe those who seek 
for her the most dihgently fail the most, because they seek her 
where she is not. Anthony sought her in love; Brutus, in glory; 
Caesar, in dominion ; — the first found disgrace, the second disgust, 
the last ingratitude, and each destruction. To some she is more 
kind, but not less cruel ; she hands them her cup and they drink 
even to stupefaction, until they doubt whether they are men, with 
Philip, or dream that they are gods, with Alexander. On some 
she smiles, as on Napoleon, with an aspect more bewitching than 
an Italian sun ; but it is only to make her frown the more terrible, 
and by one short caress to embitter the pangs of separation. Yet 
is she, by universal homage and consent, a queen ; and the pas- 
sions are the vassal lords that crowd her court, await her mandate, 
and move at her control. But, hke other mighty sovereigns, she is 
so surrounded by her envoys, her of&cers, and her ministers of 
state, that it is extremely difficult to be admitted to her presence 
chamber, or to have any immediate communication with herself. 
Ambition, avarice, love, revenge, aU these seek her, and her alone; 
alas ! they are neither presented to her nor will she come to them. 
She dispatches, however, her envoys unto them,— mean and poor 
representatives of their queen. To ambition, she sends power; to 
avarice, wealth; to love, jealousy; to revenge, remorse; alas! what 
are these, but so many other names for vexation or disappoint- 
ment? Neither is she to be won by flatteries or by bribes — she is to 
be gained by waging war against her enemies, much sooner than by 



THE MUSIC OF CHILD LA.tfGHTEE. 23 

paying any particular court to herself. Those that conquer her 
adversaries will find that they need not go to her, for she wih come 
unto them. None hid so high for her as kings ; few are more will- 
ing, none are more able to purchase her aUiance at the fidlest 
price. But she has no more respect for kings than for their sub- 
jects; she mocks them, indeed, with the empty show of a visit, by 
sending to their palaces all her equipage, her pomp, and her train; 
but she comes not herself. What detains her? She is traveling 
incognito to keep a private appointment -with contentment and to 
partake of a dinner of herbs in a cottage. 



Tine Masic oi Child Laughter. 

The laugh of a child will make the hohest day more sacred 
still. Strike with hand of fire, weird musician, thy harp strung 
with Apollo's golden hair! Fill the vast cathedral aisles with sym- 
phonies sweet and dim, deft toucher of the organ keys! Blow, 
bugle, blow, until thy silver notes do touch and kiss the moonht 
waves, charming the wandering lovers on the vine-clad hills; bui 
know your sweetest strains are discord aU compared with childhood's 
happy laugh — the laugh that fills the eyes with hght and dimples 
every cheek with joy. Oh, rippling river of laughter, thou art the 
blessed boundary hne between the beast and man, and every way- 
ward wave of thine doth drown some fretful fiend of care. 




^4: LEISURE HOURS. 



A Plea For the Erring. 

There are few subjects upon which men are so hkely to err in 
forming their judgments as in estimating the degrees of guilt in- 
volved in the conduct of their erring and depraved fellow men. 
Especially is this the case when the judgments are passed upon the 
poor and the outcast, — the unhappy persons who from infancy have 
hved in daily communion with wretchedness and vice. In spite of 
Cannings's sneer at the nice judge who 

" found with teen, discriminating sight, 

Black's not so black, nor white so very white." 

the doctrine thus ridiculed is nevertheless true in morals, if not in 
physics ; and not to recognize it is to incur the risk of undue harsh- 
ness in our estimates of our fellow men. If there is any one lesson 
which frequent intercourse with them teaches, it is the foUy of at- 
tempting nicely to classify their characters, so as to place them 
distinctly among the sheep or the goats. Here and there a man is 
found who is almost wholly bad, and another who is almost wholly 
good; but, in the infinite majority of cases, the problem is so com- 
plex as to defy aU our powers of analysis. A young men's debating 
society may easily enough resolve that some famous man or woman 
was worthy of approbation or of reprobation; but men of experience, 
who have learned the infinite complexity of human nature, know 
that a just judgment of human beings is not to be packed into any 
such summary formula. Even in judging our friends, whom we see 
daily, we make the grossest mistakes ; they are constantly starthng 
us by acts which show us how little we know of the fathomless 
depths of their moral being. How, then, can we expect to judge 
accurately of those who are utter strangers to us, and by what right 
do we presume to jjlace them irrevocably in our moral pigeon-holes? 
It is difficult to say how far in our judgments of the vilest men, 
— or those who seem to be such, — allowance should be made for 

12 



A PLEi FOR THE ERRING. 25 

perplexing circumstances, for temptations •which sve have never ex- 
perienced, and for motives which we can bnt pai-tially analyze. 
Certain it is that they who, from their earhest years, have lived al- 
ways in affluence — who have never known the cravings of a hunger 
that they knew not how to satisfy, — who have been supphed with a 
sonstant succession of innocent pleasure to rehev'e the monotony 
of hfe, and with aU the apphances of art to cheat pain of its 
stmg, — have but a faint conception of the privations and anxieties, 
the irritating and maddening thoughts, that torture the victim of 
poverty, and drive him, with an impulse dreadfully strong, to deeds 
of darkness and blood. 

Well did Maggie Mucklebacket, in Scott's novel, retort to the 
Laird of Monkbams, when he expressed a hope that the distilleries 
would never work again: "Ay, it is easy for your honor, and the 
hke o' you gentle folks, to say sae, that hae stouth and routh and 
fire and fending, and meat and claith, and sit dry and canny by the 
fireside; but an ye wanted fere, and meat and dry claise, and were 
deeing o' cauld, and had a sair heart into the bargain, which is 
warst ava, wi' just tippence in your pouch, Avadna ye be glad to buy 
a dram wi't, to be eilding, and claise, and a sujjper, and heart's 
ease into the bargain, till the mom's moi-ning?" We may not ad- 
mit the strict logic of this appeal, for the dram is too often the cause, 
as weU as the effect, of the absence of fire, and meat, and heart's 
ease ; but the fact upon which the poly-petticoated philosopher insists 
so pathetically is unquestionably a key, not only to nine-tenths of 
the vices, but also to many of the darkest crimes, that stain the an- 
nals of the poor. 

Easy, indeed, is it, for such persons as Maggie describes, — those 
for whom a serene and quiet life has been provided by fortune, — 
who are free from all harrassing cares, — ^their hveher and more 
errant feehngs all settled down into torpidity, — with not even any 
tastes to lead astray, — nothing, in short, to do but to hve a hfe 
of substantial comfort within the easy bounds which worldly wis- 
dom prescribes, — easy is it for all these sleek and well-fed members 



26 LEISUEE HOUES. 



of the venerable corps of "excessively good and rigidly righteous 
people," as Bums calls them, — 

"Wh.ose life is like a weel gaun mill,— 

Supplied 'wi' store o' water, 
The heapet happer's ebbing still, 

And stiU the clap plays clatter,"— 

to abstain from vice and crime ; for were they to be guilty of the 
outrageous sins of the distressed and tempted, they would be mon- 
sters indeed. But, before such sit in judgment on their fellow 
men, 

"Their dousie tricks, their black mistakes. 
Their failings and mischances," 

or boast of keeping their own feet within the prescribed bounds of 
virtue, would they not do well to ask themselves how many inward 
struggles this negative merit has cost them, or whether their cir- 
cumstances were not such as to render temptation to any glaring 
error impossible ? 

It is said that John Bunyan, seeing a drunkard staggering 
along the street, exclaimed, "There, but for the grace of God, goes 
John Bunyan!" "Tolerance," says Goethe, "comes with age. I 
see no fault committed that I myself could not have committed at 
some time or other." Truly, we have but to look into our own 
hearts to find the germ of many a crime which only our more fa- 
vored circumstances have prevented us from committing, and would 
we ponder on this thought with a wise humility, it might teach us, 
not to paUiale or excuse, but "more gently to scan our feUow man," 
— to judge mercifully of the sinner while we hate the sin, — and, 
above all, meekly to thank God , not that we are better than other 
men, but that we, too, have not been brought into temptations too 
fiery for our strength. "No man," says the large-hearted poet, 
Burns, "can say in what degree any other persons, besides himself, 
can be with strict justice called wicked. Let any of the strictest 
character for regularity of conduct among us examine impartially 
how many vices he has not been guilty of, not from any care or 
vigilance, but for want of opportunity, or some accidental circum- 
stance intervening; how many of the weaknesses of mankind he has 



A PLEA FOR TBE ERRING. 



escaped because he was out of the hne of such temptation; and 
what often, if not always, weighs more than all the rest, how much 
he is indebted to the world's good opinion, because the world does 
not know all; I say, any man who can thus think, may \'iew the 
faults and crimes of mankind around him with a brother's eye." 

It was in a land of harsh morahsts, and in an age when httle 
j)ity was shown to the erring, that Burns wrote these words ; but, 
though in these days a great advance has been made, it is doubtful 
if we yet have sufficient sympathy for those who stray from the 
paths of virtue. We need again and again to be reminded that the 
bad are not all bad; that there is "a soul rf goodness m things evil;" 
and that in balancing the ledger of human conduct, we should 
make a large subtraction from the bad man's debit side, as from the 
good man's credit side, of the account. Not more true is it that 
there are many "mute, inglorious Miltons," or "village Hampdens," 
whose lofty intellectual powers, hke the music of an untouched in- 
strument, have remained dormant for the want of circumstances to 
call them forth, than that there sleep in the breast of many an in- 
nocent man impulses and tendencies of a wicked character, which 
need but the breath of occasion to start them into a giant hfe. The 
pregnant story of Hazel furnishes not the only instance of a nature 
which, in ordinary circumstances, was shocked at the very imputa- 
tion of wrong, and yet, when clothed with despotic authority, 
exhibited all the odious features of the oj^pressor and the tyrant. 
"Nature," says the sententious Bacon, "may be buried a great while, 
and yet revive on the occasion of temptation ; hke as it was with 
^sop's damsel, turned from a cat to a woman, Avho sat very de- 
murely at the board's end tiU a mouse ran before her." 

It is a striking fact, noted by Sir Arthur Helps, that the man in all 
England whose duty it is to know most about crime has been heard 
to say that he finds more and more to excuse in men, and thinks 
better of human nature, even after tracking it through the most 
perverse and intolerable courses. It is the man who has seen most 
of his fellows, who is most tolerant of his fellow man. In the great 
Battle of Life, we may see many a fellow creature fall beneath a 



28 LEISUEE HOUES. 



temptation which from our own shield would have glanced harmless ; 
but let us reflect that, though we might have heen adamant to this, 
there are a thousand other darts of Satan, better suited to our na- 
tures, hy which, though pressing with less crushing force, we might 
have perished without a struggle. Only the All- Seeing Eye can 
discern how far the virtues of any one are owing to a happy tem- 
perament, or from how many vices he abstains, not from any care 
or vigilance, but, as Burns says, "for want of opportunity, or some 
accidental circumstances intervening. " 

Wlisn Henry Martyn was in college he was such a slave to an- 
ger thafc he one day hurled a knife with all his force at a fellow 
student, which might have killed or fearfully mutilated him, had it 
not missed the inark, and stuck in the wainscot of the room. 
"Martyn," exclaimed his friend, in consternation, "if you do not 
learn to govern your temper, you will one day be hanged for mur- 
der!" He did learn to govern it; became meek and humble; won 
high honors in college; went to India as a missionary; distinguished 
himself as a linguist; translated the Testament into several lan- 
guages ; and died, after doing and enduring a vast deal to rescue the 
East from the darkness of paganism. What if, with his sensitive 
and fiery organism, he had been born amid the squalor and vice of 
St. Giles? Or who can say what Martin Luther would have become, 
if, born as he was with organs of destructiveness hke those of a 
bull-dog, he had not been led by his rehgious training to employ his 
destructive energies in kUling error instead of in kilhng human be- 
ings? An English writer was so struck with the prodigious energy, 
the native feral force of Chalmers, that he declared that had it not been 
intellectualized and sanctified it would have made him, who was the 
greatest of orators, the strongest of ruffians, a mighty murderer 
upon the earth. On the other hand, who does not remember that 
even Nero, at one time of his life, could lament that he knew how 
to read or write, when called on to sign a death warrant. The 
coUiers of Bristol had been noted for ages as among the most hard- 
ened and profligate of beings, till Whitefield touched them one day 
with the wand of his magic eloquence. Even a Nancy Sykes, amid 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 29 

tlie grossest degradation, cotild do many virtuous actions; and the 
stern Milton has said that "it was from the rind of one apple that 
the knowledge of good and evil, as two twins cleaving together, 
leaped forth into the world." Moderate, then, thou stern moral- 
ist ! thy harsh and unrelenting views of human guilt? — 

"Still mark If vice or nature prompt the deed ; 
StDl mark the strong temptation or the need; 
On pressing want, on famine's powerful call. 
At least more lenient let thy justice fall; 
For him, who, lost to evei-y hope of life, 
Has long with forti^ne held unequal strife, 
Eaown to no human love, no human care, 
The friendless, homeless object of despair; 
For the poor vagrant feel, while he complains, 
Nor from sad freedom send to sadder chains. 
Alike if fortune or misfortune brought 
Those last of woes his evil days have wrought ; 
Believe, with social mercy and vdth me. 
Folly's misfortune in the first degree." 



The Prisoner of Chillon. 

There are seven pillars of Gothic mold 

In Chillon's dungeons deep and old. 
And in each pillar there is a ring, 

And in each ring there is a chain. 
That iron is a cankering thing. 

For in these limbs its teeth remain, 
With marks that will not wear away. 
Till I have done with this new day. 
Which now is painful to these eyes. 
Which have not seen the sun so rise 
For years — I cannot coimt them o'er, 
I lost then' long and heavy score 
When my last brother drooped and died, 
And I lay living by his side. 



30 LEISURE HOURS. 



They chained us each to a column stone, 
And we were three, yet each alone : 
We could not move a single pace, 
We could not see each other's face, 
But with that pale and livid light 
That made us strangers in our sight. 
And thus together, yet apart, 
Fetter'd in hand, but pined in heart, 
'Twas still some solace, in the dearth 
Of the pure elements of the earth. 
To hearken to each other's speech, 
And each turn comforter to each. 
With some new hope or legend old 
Or song heroically bold ; 
But even these at length grew cold. 

Our voices took a dreary tone, 
An echo of the dungeon stone, 
A grating sound, not ftdl and free, 
As they of yore were wont to be ; 
It might be fancy, but to me 

They never sounded like our own. 

I was the eldest of the three, 
And to uphold and cheer the rest, 
I ought to do, and did, my best; 

And each did well in his degree. 

The youngest, whom my father lov'd. 
Because our mother's brow was given 
To him, with eyes as blue" as heaven, 

For him my soul was sorely moved 
And traly might it be distress'd 
To see such bird in such a nest; 
For he was beautiful as day. 
And in his natural spirit gay, 



THE PEISONER OF CHILLON. 33 

With tears for naught but others' ills; 
And then they flowed like mountain rills. 
Unless he could assuage the woe 
Which he abhorr'd to view below. 

The other was as pure of mind, 
But formed to combat with his kind ; 
Strong in his frame, and of a mood 
Which 'gainst the world in war had stood, 
And perished in the foremost rank 

With joy; but not in chains to pine; 
His spirit withered with then* clank ; 

I saw it silently decline, 

And so, perchance, in sooth did mine ; 
But yet I forced it on to cheer 
Those relics of a home so dear. 
He was a hunter of the hills. 

Had followed there the deer and wolf; 

To him this dungeon was a gulf, 
And fettered feet the worst of ills. 



I said my nearer brother pined, 
I said his mighty heart declined. 
He loathed and put away his food ; 
It was not that 'twas coarse and rude, 
For we were used to hunters' fare. 
And for the like had little care ; 
The milk drawn from the mountain goat 
Was changed for water from the moat; 
Our bread was such as captives' tears 
Have moisten'd many a thousand years, 
Since man first pent his fellow-men 
Like brutes within an iron den. 



34 LEISUEE HOURS. 



But what were these to us or him? 
These wasted not his heart or hmb ; 
My brother's sotil was that of mold 
Which in a palace had grown cold, 
Had his free breathing been denied 
The range of the steep mountain's side: 
But why delay the truth? He died. 
I saw, and could not hold his head, 
Nor reach his dying hand, nor dead ; 
Though hard I strove, but strove in vain, 
To rend and gnash my bonds in twain. 
He died, and they unlocked his chain, 
And scoop'd for him a shallow grave 
Even from the cold earth of our cave. 

I begg'd them, as a boon, to lay 
His corpse in dust whereon the day 
Might shine : it was a foolish thought ; 
But then within my brain it wi-ought, 
That even in death his freeborn breast 
In such a dungeon could not rest. 
I might have spared my idle prayer ; 
They coldly laugh'd, and laid him there, 
The flat and turfless earth above 
The being we so much did love ; 
His empty chain above it leant,- 
Such murder's fitting monument ! 
But he, the favorite and the flower 
Most cherish' d since his natal hour. 

His mother's image in fair face, 
The infant love of all his race. 
His martyred father's dearest thought, 
My latest care, for whom I sought 
To hoard my life, that his might be 



THE PRISONER OF CHILLON. 35 



Less "v\T:etc]ied now, and one day free ; 
He, too, who yet had held untired, 
A spirit natural or inspired, 
He, too, was struck, and day by day 
Was withered on the stalk away. . 

0, God! it is a feai-ful thuig 

To see the human soul take wing 

In any shape, in any mood. 

I've seen it rushing forth in blood, 

I've seen it on the breaking ocean 

Strive with a swoln, convulsive motion, 

I've seen the sick and ghastly bed 

Of sin delirious with its di-ead ; 

But these were horrors; this was woe 

Unmix'd with such, but sure and slow. 

He faded, and so calm and meek. 

So softly worn, so sweetly weak. 

So tearless, yet so tender, kind, 

And grieved for those he left behind; 

With, all the while a cheek whose bloom 

Was as a mockery of the tomb. 

Whose tints as gently sunk away 

As a departing rambow's ray. 

An eye of most transparent light, 

That almost made the dungeon bright; 

And not a word of murmur, not 

A groan o'er his untimely lot, 

A little talk of better days, 

A little hope my ovra to raise ; 

For I was sunk in silence, lost 

In this last loss, of all the most. 

And then the sighs he would suppress, 
Of fainting nature's feebleness, 



36 



LEISURE HOURS. 



More slowly drawn, grew less and less. 

I listen'd, but I could not hear, 

I call'd, for I was wild with fear; 

I knew 'twas hopeless, but my dread 

Would not be thus admonished; 

I call'd, and thought I heard a sound; 

I burst my chain mth one strong bound, 

I rushed to him, I found him not ; 

I only stirred in this black spot, 

I only lived, I only drew 

The accm-sed breath of dungeon dew; 

The last, the sole, the dearest link 

Between me and the eternal brink, 

Which bound me to my failing race, 

Was broken in this fatal place. 



The Voiceless. 



We count the broken lyres that rest 

Where the sweet wailing singers slumber. 
But o'er their silent sister's breast 

The wild-flowers who will stoop to number? 
A few can touch the magic string, 

And noisy Fame is proud to win them; 
Alas for those who never sing, 

But die with all their music in them ! 

Nay, grieve not for the dead alon 

Whose song has told their heart's sad story; 
Weep for the voiceless, who have known 

The cross without the crown of glory ! 
Not where Leucadian breezes sweep 

O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow, 



INDIAN SFMMEE. 37 



But where the glistening night-dews weep 
O'er nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow. 

hearts that break and give no sign 

Save whitening lip and fading tresses, 
Till Death pours out his cordial wine, 

Slow-dropped from Misery's crushing presses, — 
If singing breath or echoing chord 

To every hidden pang were given. 
What endless melodies were poured. 

As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven! 



Indian Summer. 

The Year has paused to remember, and beautiful her memories 
are. She recalls the Spring; how soft the air! And the Summer; 
how deep and warm the sky ! And the harvest ; how j)illar'd and 
golden the clouds ! And the rainbows and the sunsets ; how gor- 
geous are the woods ! 

Indian Summer is nature's "sober, second thought," and to me, 
the sweetest of the thinking. A veil of golden gauze trails through 
the air; the woods en deshabille, are gay with the hectic flushes of 
the Fall; and the bright sun, relenting, comes meekly back again, 
as if he would not go to Capricorn. He has a kindly look; he no 
longer dazzles one's eyes out, but has a sunset softness in his face, 
and fairly blushes at the trick he meditated. Eound, red Sun ! rich 
ruby in the jewelry of God ! it sets as big as the woods ; and ten 
acres of forest, in the distance, are reheved upon the great disc — a 
rare device upon a glorious medaUion. The sweet south wind has 
come again, and breathes softly through the woods, till they rustle 
like a banner of crimson and gold ; and waltzes gaily with the dead 



SS LEiStRE HOtJfiS. 



leaves that strew the ground, and whirls them quite away some- 
times, in its frolic, over the fields and the fences, and into the 
brook, in whose little eddies they loiter on the way, and never get 
"down to the sea" at all. 

Who wonders that, with this mirage of departed Summer in 
sight, the peach trees sometimes lose their reckoning, fancy Winter, 
pale fly-leaf in the book of Time, has somehow shpped out, and put 
forth their rosy blossoms only to be carried away, to-day or to-mor- 
row, by the blasts of November. 

And with the sun and the wind, here are the birds once more. 
A blue bird warbles near the house, as it used to do; the sparrows 
are chirping in the bushes, and the wood-robins flicker like flakes 
of fire through the trees. Now and then a crimson or yellow leaf 
winnows its way slowly down through the smoky light, and "the 
sound of dropping nuts is heard " in the still woods. The brook 
that a little while ago stole along in the shadow, ripphng softly round 
the boughs that trailed idly in its waters, now twinkles aU the way, 
on its journey down to the lake. It is Saturday night of Nature and 
the Year — 

"Their breathing moment on the bridge where Time 
Of light and darkness, forms an arch sublime." 

There is nothing more to be done; everything is packed up; 
the wardrobe of Spring and Summer is aU folded in those little rus- 
set and rude cases, and laid away here and there, some in the earth, 
and some in the water, and lost, as we say, but after aU, no more 
lost than is the little infant, when, laid upon a pillow it is rocked 
and swung, this way and that, in the arms of a careful mother. So 
the dying, smihng Year is all ready to go. 

"Aye, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath, 

When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf. 

And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, 
And the year smiles as it draws near its death. 
Winds of the sunny south! oh, still delay, 

In the gay woods and in the golden air. 

Like to a good old age, released from care 
Joameying in long serenity, away. 



POOK RICHAED. 39 



Poor Richard. 

I have heard that nothing gives an author so great pleasure as 
to find his works respectfully quoted by others. Judge, then, how 
much I must have been gratified by an incident I am going to 
relate to you. I stopped my horse, lately, where a great number 
of people were collected at an auction of merchant's goods. The 
hour of sale not being come, they were conversing on the badness 
of the times ; and one of the company called to a plain, clean old 
man, with white locks, "Pray, father Abraham, what think you of 
the times? WiU not those heavy taxes quite ruin the country? 
How shall we ever be able to pay them? What would you advise 
us to?" Father Abraham stood up, and replied, "If you would 
have my advice, I will give it you in short, 'for a Avord to the wise 
is enough,' as poor Eichard says." They joined in desiring him 
to speak his mind, and gathering round him, he proceeded as fol- 
lows : — 

"Friends," says he, "the taxes are indeed very heavy; and, if 
those laid on by the Government were the only ones we had to pay, 
we might more easily discharge them ; but we have many others, 
and much more grievous to some of us. We are taxed twice as 
much by our idleness, three times as much by our pride, and four 
times as much by our folly; and from these taxes the commission- 
ers cannot ease or deliver us by allowing an abatement. However, 
let us hearken to good advice, and something may be done for us; 
'God helps them that helps themselves,' as poor Eichard says. 

"I. It would be thought a hard Government that should tax 
its people one-tenth part of their time to be employed in its ser- 
vice; but idleness taxes many of us much more; sloth, by bring- 
ing on diseases, absolutely shortens hfe. 'Sloth, like rust, con- 
sumes faster than labor wears, while the used key is always bright,' 
as poor Eichard says. 'But dost thou love life, then do not squan- 



40 LEISURE HOUES. 



der time, for that is the stuff life is made of,' as poor Eichard says. 
How much more than is necessary do we spend in sleep ; forget- 
ting that 'the sleeping fox catches no poultry, and that there wUl 
he sleeping enough in the grave,' as poor Richard says. 

"If time he of aU things the most j)recious, wasting time must 
be, as poor Eichard says, 'thi greatest prodigahty ; ' since, as he 
elsewhere tells us, Lost time is never found again; and what Ave 
call time enough, always proves httle enough.' Let us then up 
and be doing, and doing to the purpose, so by diligence shall we 
do more with less perplexity. 'Sloth makes aU things difficult, 
but industry aU easy, and he that riseth late, must trot aU day 
and shall scarce overtake his business at night; while laziness 
travels so slowly, that poverty soon overtakes him. Drive thy 
business, let not that drive thee; and 'early to bed, and early to 
rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise,' as poor Eichard 
says. 

"So what signifies wishing and hoping for better times? We 
may make these times better, if we bestir ourselves. 'Industry 
need not wish, and he that lives upon hope wiU c^jie fasting. There 
are no gains without pains; then help hands for I have no lands, 
or if I have, they are smartly taxed. 'He that hath a trade hath 
an estate ; and he that hath a caUing, hath an office of profit and 
honor,' as poor Eichard says; but then the trade must be worked 
at, and the calling well followed, or neither the estate nor the office 
will enable us to pay our taxes. If we are indvistrious, we shaU 
never starve; for 'at the workingman's house hunger looks in but 
dares not enter.' Nor will the bailiff or the constable enter, for 
'industry pays debts, while despair increaseth them.' What 
though you have found no treasure, nor has any rich relation left 
a legacy, 'Diligence is the mother of good luck, and God gives all 
things to industry. Then plow deep, while sluggards sleep, 
and you shall have corn to sell and to keep.' Work whUe it is 
called to-day, for you know not how much you may be hindred 
to-morrow. 'One to-day is worth two to-morrows,' as poor Eich- 
ard says ; and further, 'Never leave that till to-morrow which, you 



POOK RICHAED. ^^ 



can do to-day.' If you were a servant, would you not be ashamed 
that a good master should catch you idle? Are you then your own 
master? Be ashamed to catch yourself idle, when there is so much 
to be done for yourself, your family, yom- country, and your king. 
'Handle your tools without mittens; remember that 'the cat in 
gloves catches no mice,' as poor Eichard says. It is true there is 
much to be done, and, perhaps, you are weak-handed; but stick to 
it steadily, and you will see great effects; for 'constant di-opping 
wears away stones;' and 'by diligence and patience the mouse ate in 
two the cable;' and 'httle strokes feU great oaks.' 

"Methinks I hear some of you say, 'Must a man afford him- 
self no leisure?' I wiH teU thee, my friend, whafc poor Eichard 
says: 'Employ thy time well, if thou meanest to gain leisure; 
and, since thou art not sure of a minute, throw not away an hour.' 
Leisure is time for doing something useful; this leisure the dihgent 
man will obtain, but the lazy man never; for, 'A life of leisure and 
a life of laziness are two things. Many, without labor, would live 
by their wits only, but they break for want of stock;' whereas in- 
dustry gives comfort, and plenty, and respect. 'Fly pleasures and 
they will foUow you. The diligent spinner has a large shift, and 
now I have a sheep and a cow, everybody bids me good-morrow.' 

"11. But with our industiy we must likewise be steady, settled 
and careful, and oversee our own affairs with our own eyes, and 
not trust too much to others, for, as poor Eichard says — 

'I never saw an oft removed tree, 

Nor yet an oft removed family, 

That throve so well as those that settled be. 

And again, 'Three removes are as bad as a fire;' and again, 'Keep 
thy shop, and thy shop will keep thee;' and again, 'If you would 
have your busmess done, go; if not, send;' and again — 

'He that by the plow would thrive, 
Himself must either hold or drive.' 

And again, 'The eye of the master will do more work than both his 
hands;' and again, 'Want of care does more damage than want of 
knowledge;' and again, 'Not to oversee workmen, is to leave them 



4:2 • LEISUEE HOURS. 



your purse open.' Trusting too much to others' care is the ruin of 
many ; for 'In the affairs of this world, men are saved, not hy 
faith, hut hy the want of it;' hut a man's own care is profitable, 
for 'If you would have a faithful servant, and one that you like, serve 
yourself. A httle neglect may breed great mischief ; for want of a 
nail the shoe was lost; for want of a shoe the horse was lost; for 
want of a horse the rider was lost,' being overtaken and slain by 
the enemy; aU for the want of a httle care about a horse-shoe nail. 
"III. So much for industry, my friends, and attention to 
one's own business; but to these we must add frugahty, if we 
would make our industry more certainly successful. A man may, 
if he knows not how to save as he gets, 'keep his nose aU his hfe to 
the grindstone, and die not worth a groat at last. A fat kitchen 
makes a lean will;' and — 

, 'Many estates are spent in the getting, 

Since women for tea forsook spinning and knitting. 
And men for punch forsook hewing and splitting." 

'If you would be wealthy, think of saving, as weU as of getting. 
The Indies have not made Spain rich, because her outgoes are 
greater than her incomes.' 

"Away, then, with your expensive foUies, and you will not then 
have so much cause to complain of hard times, heavy taxes, and 
chargeable f amihes ; for — 

'Women and wine, game and deceit, 

Make the wealth small, and the want great.- • 

And further, 'What maintains one vice, would bring up two chil- 
dren.' You may think, perhaps, that a little tea or a little punch 
now and then, diet a httle more costly, clothes a httle finer, and a 
httle entertainment now and then, can he no great matter; but 
remember, 'Many a httle makes a mickle.' Beware of httle ex- 
penses; 'A smaU leak wiU sink a great ship,' as poor Eichard says; 
and again, 'Who damties love, shall beggars prove;' and moreover, 
'Fools make feasts, and wise men eat them.' Here you are all got 
together to this sale of fineries and nicknacks. You call them 
goods; but, if you do not care, they will prove evils to some of 
11 



POOR RICHARD. 43 



you. You expect they will be sold cheap, and, perhaps, they may 
for less than they cost; but, if you have no occasion for them, they 
must be dear to you. Eemember what poor Eichard says: 'Buy 
those that thou hast no need of, and ere long thou shalt sell thy 
necessaries.' And again, 'At a great pennyworth pause a while;' 
he means, that perhaps the cheapness is apparent only, and not 
real; or the bargain, by straitening thee in thy business, may do 
thee more harm than good. For in another place he says, 'Many 
have been ruined by buying good pennyworths.' Again, 'It is fool- 
ish to lay out money in a purchase of repentance;' and yet this 
foUy is practiced eveiy day at auctions, for want of minding tbe 
Almanack. Many a one, for the sake of finery on the back, have 
gone with a hungry belly, and half starved their families; 'silks 
and satins, scarlet and velvets put out the kitchen fire,' as poor 
Eichard says. These are not the necessaries of hfe; they can 
scarcely be called the conveniences ; and yet, only because they look 
pretty, how many want to have them ! By these and other extrava- 
gances, the greatest are reduced to poverty, and forced to borrow erf 
those whom they formerly despised, but who, through industry and 
f rugahty , have maintained their standing ; in which case it appears 
plainly, that 'A plowman on his legs is higher than a gentleman 
on his knees,' as poor Eichard says. Perhaps they have had a small 
estate left them, wliich they knew not the getting of ; they think, 
'It is day, and will never be night;' 'that a httle to be spent out of 
so much is not worth minding; but 'Always taking out of the meal- 
tub and never putting in soon comes to the bottom,' as poor Eich- 
ard says ; and then 'When the weU is dry, they know the worth of 
water.' But this they might have known before, if they had taken 
his advice. 'If you would know the value of money, go and try to 
borrow some; for he that goes a bon-owing goes a sorrowing,' as 
poor Eichard says ; and, indeed, so does he that lends to such people, 
when he goes to get it in again. Poor Dick further advises, and 
says, — 

'Fond pride of dress Is sure a very ciirse; 
Bre fancy you consult, consult your purse.' 



44 LEISUEE HOURS. 



And again, 'Pride is as loud a beggar as want, and a great deal 
more saucy.' When you have bought one fine thing, you must 
buy ten more, that your appearance may be all of a piece; but 
poor Dick says, 'It is easier to suppress the first desire, than to 
satisfy all that foUow it.' And it is as truly folly for the poor to 
ape the rich, as for the frog to swell, in order to equal the ox. 

'Vessels large may venture more, 

But little boats should keep near shore.' 

"It is, however, a folly soon punished; for, as poor Eichard 
says, *Pride that dines on vanity sups on contempt; pride break- 
fasted with plenty, dined with poverty, and supped with infamy.' 
And after aU, of what use is this pride of appearance, for which 
so much is risked, so much is suffered? It cannot promote health, 
nor ease pain; it makes no increase of merit in the person; it cre- 
ates envy, it hastens misfortune. 

"But what madness it must be to run in debt for these super- 
fluities! We are offered, by the terms of this sale, six months 
credit; and that, perhaps, has induced some of us to attend it, 
because we cannot spare the ready money, and hope now to be fine 
without it. But, ah! think what you do when you run in debt; 
you give to another power over your liberty. If you cannot pay at 
the time, you will be ashamed to see your creditor; you will be in 
fear when you speak to him ; you will make poor, pitiful, sneaking 
excuses, and, by degrees, come to lose your veracity, and sink into 
base,downright lying; for 'The second vice is lying; the first is run- 
ning in debt,' as poor Eichard says: and again, to the same pur- 
pose, 'Lying rides upon debt's back;' whereas a freeborn Enghsh- 
man ought not to be ashamed nor afraid to see or speak to any 
man living. But poverty often deprives a man of all spirit and 
virtue. 'It is hard for an empty bag to stand upright.' What 
would you think of that Prince, or of that Government, who should 
issue an edict forbidding you to dress like a gentleman or gen- 
tlewoman, on pain of imprisonment or servitude ? Would you not 
say that you were free, have a right to dress as you please, and 



POOR RICHAED. 45 



that auch an edict would be a breach of your privileges, and such 
a government tyrannical? and yet you are about to put yourself 
under that tyranny, when you run in debt for such dress ! Your 
creditor has authority, at his pleasure, to deprive you of your hberty, 
by confining you in goal for life, or by selling you for a servant, if 
you should not be able to pay him. When you have got your bar- 
gain, you may, perhaps, think httle of payment; but, as poor Eich- 
ard says, 'creditors have better memories than debtors; creditors 
are a superstitious sect, great observers of days and times.' The 
day comes round before you are aware, and the demand is made 
before you are prepared to satisfy it ; or, if you bear your debt in 
mind, the term which at first seemed so long, wiU as it lessens, 
appear extremely short: Time will seem to have added wings to 
his heels as well as his shoulders. 'Those have a short Lent, who 
owe money to be paid at Easter.' At present, perhaps, you may 
think yourselves in thriving circiimstances, and that you can bear 
a Httle extravagance without injury; but, 

'For age and want save while you may, 
No morning sun lasts a whole day. ' 

'Gain may be temporary and uncertain; but ever, while you hve, 
expense is constant and certain ; and 'It is easier to build two chim- 
neys than to keep one in fuel,' as poor Eichard says: so, 'Eather 
go to bed supperless than rise in debt.' 

'Get what you can, and what you get hold, 

'Tls the stone that will turn all your lead into gold.' 

And, when you have got the philosopher's stone, sure you will no 
longer complain of bad times, or the difficulty of paying taxes. 

"IV. This doctrine, my friends, is reason and wisdom; but, 
after aU, do not depend too much upon your own industry and fru- 
gahty, and prudence, though excellent things ; for they may aU be 
blasted without the blessing of Heaven; and therefore, ask that 
blessing humbly, and be not uncharitable to those that at present 
seem to want it, but comfort and help them. Eemember, Job suf- 
fered, and was afterward prosperous. 

"And now to conclude, 'Experience keeps a dear school, but 



46 LEISURE HOURS. 



fools will learn in no other,' as poor Eichard says, and scarce in 
that; for it is true, 'we may give advice, but we cannot give con- 
duct.' However, remember this, 'They that will not be counseled, 
cannot be helped:' and further, that, 'If you will not hear reason, 
she will surely rap your knuckles,' as poor Eichard says." 

Thus the old gentleman ended his harangue. The people 
heard it, and approved the doctrine, and immediately practiced the 
contrary, just as if it had been a common sermon; for the auction 
opened, and they began to buy extravagantly. I found the good 
man had thoroughly studied Almanack, and digested all I had 
dropped on these topics during the course of twenty-five years. 
The frequent mention he made of me must have tired any one else ; 
but my vanity was wonderfully delighted with it, though I was con- 
scious that not a tenth part of the wisdom was my own which he 
ascribed to me; but rather the gleanings that I had made of the 
sense of aU ages and nations. However, I resolved to be the better 
for the echo of it ; and though I had at first determined to buy stuff 
for a new coat, I went away, resolved to wear my old one a little 
longer, Eeader, if thou wilt do the same, thy profit will be as 
great as mine. I am, as ever, thine to serve thee. 




THE OLD-FASHIONED MOTHEE. 49 



The Old-FastLioned Motlier. 

Old-fashioned mothers have nearly all passed aAvay with the 
blue check and homespun woolen of a simpler but purer time. 
Here and there one remains, truly accomphshed in heart and hfe 
for the sphere of home. 

Old-fashioned mothers — God bless them ! — who followed lis, 
with heart and prayer, all over the world — hved in our hves and 
sorrowed in our griefs ; who knew more about patching than poetry ; 
spoke no dialect but that of love ; never j) reached nor wandered ; 
"made melody with their hearts ; " and sent forth no books but hving 
volumes, that honored their authors and blessed the world. 

If woman have a broader mission now, in Heaven's name let 
her fulfill it ! If she have aught to sing, like the daughters of Judah 
let her sit down by the waters of Babel, and the world shaU weep ; 
like Miriam let her triumph -strain float gloriously over crushed but 
giant wrong, and the giant wrong and the world shall hear ; but let 
the triumph and lament issue, as did the oracles of old, from behind 
the veil that cannot be rent, the "inner temple" of sacred Home. 

Within it should be enshrined the divinity of the place. 
Here, and here only, would we find woman; here imprison her — 
imprison her? Aye, as the hght-house ray, that flows out, pure as 
an angel's pulses, into the nigiit and darkness of the world — a star 
beneath the cloud; but brightest there — warmest there — always there 
where Heaven did kindle it, within the precinct, the very altar-place 
of home ! 

It is related of Madame Lucciola, a renowned vocahst, that she 
ruined a splendid tenor voice by her efforts to imitate male singing. 
Many a sweet voice and gentle influence in the social harmony has 
been lost to the world in the same manner. There is nothing more 
potent than woman's voice, if heard, not in the field or the forum, 
but at home. The song-bird of Eastern story, borne from its native 



50 LEISUBE HOURS., 



isle, grew dumb and languished. Seldom did it sing, and only 
when it saw a dweller from its distant land, or to its drowsy perch 
there came a tone heard long ago in its own woods. So with 
the song that woman sings; best heard within Home's sacred temple. 
Elsewhere, a trumpet-tone — perhaps a clarion-cry, but the lute-Hke 
voice has fled: the "mezzo-soprano" is lost in the discords of earth. 

The old homestead ! I wish I could paint it for you, as it is — 
no, no, I dare not say, as it is — as it tvas; that we could go together, 
to-night, from room to room ; sit by the old hearth round which 
that circle of light and love once swept, and there linger tUl all 
those simpler, purer times returned, and we should grow young 
agaia. 

And how can we leave that spot without remembering one 
form, that occupied, in days gone by, the old arm-chair, — that "old- 
fashioned Mother?" — one, in aU the world, the law of whose life 
was love ; one who was the divinity of our infancy, and the sacred 
presence in the shrine of our first earthly idolatry; one whose 
heart is far below the frosts that gather so thickly on her brow; 
one to whom we never grow old, but in "the plumed troop" or 
the grave council are children still; one who welcomed us coming, 
blest lis going, and never forgets us — never. 

And when, in some closet, some drawer, some corner, she finds 
a garment or a toy that once was yours, how does she weep as she 
thinks you may be suffering or sad. And when Spring 

"Leaves_lier robe on the trees," 

does she not remember your tree, and wish you were there to see it 
in its glory? 

Nothing is "far," and nothing "long," to her; she girdles the 
globe with a cincture of love ; she encircles her child, if he be on the 
face of the earth. • 

Think you, as she sits in that well remembered corner to-night, 
she dreams her trembhng arm is less powerful to protect him now, 
stalwart man though he is, than when it clasped him, in infancy, 
to her bosom ? 

Does the battle of hfe drive the wanderer to the old homestead, 



ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. 51 



at last? Her hand is upon his shoulder; her dim and fading eyes 
are kindled with something of "the hght of other days," as she gazes 
upon his brow: "Be of stout heart, my son! No harm can reach 
thee here!" 

Surely, there is but one Heaven — one Mother — and one God, 

But sometimes that arm-chair is set back against the waU, the 
corner is vacant, or another's, and they seek the dear old occupant 
in the graveyard. God grant you never have ! Pray God, I never 
may! 

There are some there, though, whom we loved — there must be 
to make it easy dying; some, perhaps, who were cradled on that 
mother's bosom; some, perhaps, who had grown fast to our own. 

The old graveyard in L ! How the cloudy years clear 

away from before that Httle acre in God's fallow field, and the mem- 
ories return. 



On The Receipt of My Mother's Picture. 

Oh that those lips ha.d language! Life has pass'd 
With me but roughly since I heard thee last. 
Those lips are thine — thy own sweet smile I see, 
The same that oft in childhood solaced me; 
Voice only fails, else how distinct they say, 
"Grieve not, my child, chase all thy fears away!" 
The meek intelligence of those dear eyes 
(Blest be the Art that can immortalize, — 
The Art that baffles Time's tyrannic claim 
To quench it!) here shines on me still the same. 
Faithful remembrancer of one so dear, 

welcome guest, though unexpected, here! 
Who bidst me honor with an artless song, 
Affectionate, a mother lost so long. 

1 will obey, not willingly alone, 

But gladly, as the precept were her own; 



52 LEISUKE HOURS. 



And while that face renews my filial grief, 

Fancy shall weave a charm for my relief, — 

Shall steep me in Elysian reverie, 

A momentary dream, that thou art she. 

My mother ! when I learned that thou wast dead, 

Say, wast thou conscious of the tears I shed? 

Hover'd thy spirit o'er thy sorrowing son. 

Wretch even then, life's journey just begun? 

Perhaps thou gav'st me, though unfelt, a kiss; 

Perhaps a tear, if souls can weep in bliss — 

Ah, that maternal smile ! — it answers — Yes. 

I heard the bell toll'd on thy burial-day, 

I saw the hearse that bore thee slow away, 

And, turning from my nursery window, drew 

A long, long sigh, and wept a last adieu! 

But was it such? — It was. — Where thou art gone 

Adieus and farewells are a sound unknown. 

May I but meet thee on that peaceful shore, 

The parting words shall pass my lips no more ! 

Thy maidens, grieved themselves at my concern, 

Oft gave me promise of fchy quick return. 

What ardently I wish'd, I long believed. 

And disappointed still, was still deceived; 

By expectation every day beguiled, 

Dupe of to-morrow even from a child. 

Thus many a sad to-morrow came and went, 

Till all my stock of infant sorrows spent, 

I learn'd at last submission to my lot. 

But, though I less deplored thee, ne'er forgot. 

Where once we dwelt our name is heard no more, 

Children not thine have trod my nursery floor; 

And where the gardener Eobin, day by day 

Drew me to school along the public way, 

Delighted with my bauble coach, and wrapt 

In scarlet mantle warm, and velvet- capt, 



ON THE RECEIPT OF MY MOTHER'S PICTURE. 53 

'Tis now become a history little known, 

That once we call'd the pastoral house our own. 

Short-lived possession ! But the record fair, 

That memory keeps of all thy kindness there, 

Still outlives many a storm, that has effaced 

A thousand other themes less deeply traced. 

Thy nightly visits to my chamber made, 

That thou mightst know me safe and warmly laid; 

Thy morning bounties ere I left my home, 

The biscuit, or confectionery plum ; 

The fragrant waters on my cheeks bestow'd 

By thine own hand, till fresh they shone and glow'd* 

All this, and more endearing still than all. 

Thy constant flow of love that knew no fall, 

Ne'er roughened by those cataracts and breaks 

That humor interposed too often makes ; 

All this, still legible in memory's page. 

And still to be so to my latest age. 

Adds joy to duty, makes me glad to pay 

Such honors to thee as my numbers may; 

Perhaps a frail memorial, but sincere. 

Not scorn' d in heaven, though little noticed here. 

Could Time his flight reversed, restore the hours, 

"When playing with thy vesture's tissaed flowers. 

The violet, the pink and jessamine, 

I prick'd them into paper with a pin 

(And thou wast happier than myself the while, 

Wouldst softly speak, and stroke my head, and smile), — 

Could those few pleasant days again appear, 

Might one wish bring them, would I wish them here? 

I would not trust my heart; the dear delight 

Seems so to be desired, perhaps I might. 

But no — what here we caU our life is such, 

So little to be loved, and thou so much. 

That I should ill requite thee to constrain 



54 LEISUEE HOUKS. 



Thy unbound spirit into bonds again. 

Thou, as a gallant bark from Albion's coast 

(The storms all weather'd and the ocean cross'd), 

Shoots into port at some well-haven'd isle, 

Where spices breathe, and brighter seasons smile, 

There sits quiescent on the floods, that show 

Her beauteous form reflected clear below, 

While airs impregnated with incense play 

Around her, fanning lighr, her streamers gay; 

So thou, with sails how swift! hast reach'd the shore, 

'Where tempests never beat nor billows roar;" 

And thy loved consort on the dangerous tide 

Of life long since has anchor'd by thy side. 

But me, scarce hoping to attain that rest, 

Always fi'om port witheld, always distress'd, — 

Me howling blasts drive devious, tempest toss'd. 

Sails ripp'd, seams opening wide, and compass lost. 

And day by day some current's thwarting force 

Sets me more distant from a prosperous course. 

Yet oh, the thought that tihou art safe, and he! 

That thought is joy, arrive what may to me. 

My boast is net that I deduce my birth 

From loins enthroned and rulers of the earth, 

But higher far my proud pretentions rise, — 

The son of parents pass'd into the skies. 

And now, farewell! —Time unrevoked has run 

His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done. 

By contemplation's help, not sought in vain, 

I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again; 

To have renewed ihe joys that once were mine. 

Without the sin of violating thine ; 

And, while the wings of fancy still are free, 

And I can view this mimic show of thee, 

Time has but half succeeded in his theft, — 

Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left. 



ADVICE TO A WOULD-BE CRimNAL. 



Advice to a "Woulci-Be Criminal 

(A young man sought to murder an elderly citizen for his money. In (he struggle 
ihe young man was overcome by his intended victim and held hy an iron grasp. 
While in this situation the citizen gave his intended miirderer the following excellent 
lecture :] 

"My boy, you are entering by sloth into the most laborious of 
existences. Ah ! you declare yourself an idler, then prepare your- 
self for labor. Have you ever seen a formidable machine which is 
called a flatting-press ? You must be on your guard against it, for 
it is a crafty and ferocious thing, and if it catches you by the skirt 
of the coat it drags you under it entirely. This machine is indo- 
lence. Stop while there is yet time, and save yourseh, otherwise 
it is all over with you, and ere long you will be among the 
cog-wheels. Once caught, hope for nothing more. You will be 
forced to fatigue yourself, idler, and no rest will be allowed you, 
for the iron hand of implacable toil has seized you. You refuse to 
earn your hvelihood, have a calling, and accomplish a duty; it 
bores you to be like the rest — well, you will be different. Labor is 
the law, and whoever repulses it as a bore must have it as a punish- 
ment. You do not wish to be a laborer, and you will be a slave ; 
toil only lets you loose on one side to seize you again on the other ; 
you do not wish to be its friend, and you will be its negro. Ah, 
you did not care for the honest fatigue of men, and you are about 
to know the sweat of the damned; while others sing you will groan. 
You will see other men worldng in the distance, and they will seem 
to you to be resting. The laborer, the reaper, the sailor, the 
blacksmith, will appear to you in the light, like the blessed inmates 
of a paradise. 

"What a radiance there is in the anvil; what joy it is to guide 

the plow and tie up the sheaf ; what a holiday to fly before the wind 

in a boat! But you, idler, will have to dig, and drag, and roll, and 

walk ! Pull at your halter, for you are a beast of burden m the 

s 



66 LEISURE HOUEg. 



service of hell! So your desire is to do nothing? Well, you wiU 
not have a week, a day, an hour without feeling crushed. You will 
not he ahle to lift anything without agony, and every passing 
minute wiU make your muscles crack. What is a feather for others 
wiU he a rock for you, and the most simple things will grow scarped. 
Life wiU hecome a monster around you, and coming, going, breath- 
ing, will be so many terrible tasks for you. Your lungs will pro- 
duce in you the effect of a hundred-pound weight, and going there 
sooner than here will be a problem to solve. Any man who wishes 
to go out, merely opens his door and finds himself in the street; 
but if you wish to go out you must pierce through your wall. What 
do honest men do to reach to street ? They go down stairs ; but 
you will tear up your sheets, make a cord of them, fiber by fiber, 
then pass through your window and hang by this thread over an 
abyss, and it will take place at night, in the storm, the rain, or the 
hurricane, and if the cord be too short you will have but one way 
of descending, by faUing — falling hap -hazard into the guK, and 
from any height, and on what? On some unknown thing beneath. 
Or you will chmb up a chimney at the risk of burning yourself, or 
crawl through a sewer at the risk of drowning. I will say nothing 
of the holes which must be masked, of the stones which you wiU 
have to remove and put back twenty times a day, or of the plaster 
you must hide under your mattress. A lock presents itself, and the 
citizen has in his pocket the key for it, made by the locksmith. 
But you, if you wish to go out, are condemned to make a terrible 
masterpiece; you will take a double sou and cut it asunder with 
tools of your own invention— that is your business. Then you wiU 
hollow out the interior of the two parts, being careful not to injure 
the outside, and form a thread aU round the edge, so that the two 
parts may fit closely hke a box and its cover. When they are 
screwed together there will be nothing suspicious to the watchers — 
for you wiU be watched — it wiU be a double, sou, but for yourself a 
box. What will you place in this box? A small piece of steel, a 
watch-spring in which you have made teeth, and which v/ill be a 
saw. With this saw, about the length of a pin, you will be obliged 



At)VICE TO A WOtJLD-BS! CSIMINAli. 57 

to cut through the bolt of the lock, the padlock of your chain, the 
bar at your window, and the fetter on your leg. This masterpiece 
done, this prodigy accomplished, all the miracles of art, sldll, clever- 
ness and patience executed, what will be your reward if you are 
detected? A dungeon. Such is the future. What precipices are 
sloth and pleasure ! To do nothing is a melancholy resolution ; are 
you aware of that? To hve in indolence on the social substance, 
to be useless, that is to say, injurious ! This leads straight to the 
bottom of the misery. Woe to the man who wishes to be a para- 
site, for he will be a vermin ! Ah ! it does not please you to work ! 
Ah ! you have only one thought : to drink well, eat well, and sleep 
well. You win drink water, you will eat black bread, you will 
sleep on a plank with fetters riveted to your limbs and feel their 
coldness at night in your flesh ! You will break these fetters and 
fly? Very good. Y'^ou will drag yourself on your stomach into the 
shrubs and eat grass like the beasts of the field, and you avLU. be 
recaptured, and then you will pass years in a dungeon, chained to 
the wall, groping in the dark for your water-jug, biting at frightful 
black bread which dogs would refuse, and eating beans which 
maggots have eaten before you. Y'^ou "\viU be a wood-louse in a 
cellar. Ah, ah ! take pity on yourself, wretched boy, still so young, 
who were at your nurse's breast not twenty years ago, and have 
doubtless a mother still ! I implore you to listen to me. You want 
fine black cloth, pohshed shoes, to scent your head with fragrant 
oil, to please creatures and be a pretty fellow ; you will have your 
hair close shaven, and wear a red jacket and wooden shoes. You 
want a ring on your finger, and will wear a coUar on your neck 
and if you look at a woman you will be beaten ; and you will go in 
there at twenty and come out at fifty years of age ; you will go in 
young, red-cheeked, healthy, with your sjjarkhng eyes, and all your 
white teeth and your curly locks, and you will come out again broken, 
bent, wrinkled, toothless, horrible and gray-headed! Ah, my poor 
boy, you are on the wrong road, and indolence is a bad adviser, for 
robbery is the hardest of labors. Take my advice, and do not 
undertake the laborious task of being an idler. To become a rogue 



58 LEISURE HOURS. 



is inconvenient, and it is not nearly so liard to be an honest man 
Now go and think over wliat I have said to you. By the by, 
what did you want of me? My purse? Here it is." And the old 
man, releasing Montparnasse, placed his purse in his hand, which 
Montparnasse weighed for a moment, after which, with the same 
mechanical precaution as if he had stolen it, Montparnasse let it 
glide gently into the back-pocket of his coat. AU this said and 
done, the old gentleman turned his back and quietly resumed his 



walk. 



A Glass Of Cold Water. 

Where is the hquor which God, the Eternal, brews for all his 
children? Not in the simmering still, over smoky fires choked with 
poisonous gases, surrounded with the stench of sickening odors 
and rank corruptions doth your Father in Heaven prepare the 
precious essence of life, the pure cold water. But in the green 
glade and grassy dell, where the red deer wanders and the child 
loves to play; there God brews it. And down, low down in the low- 
est valleys, where the fountains murmur and the rills sing; and high 
upon the taU mountain tops, where the naked granite ghtters like 
gold in the sun ; where the storm-cloud broods, and the thunder- 
storms crash; and away, far out on the wide, wild sea, where the 
hurricane howls music, and the big waves roar; the chorus sweeping 
the march of God; there He brews it — that beverage of hfe and 
health-giving water. And everywhere it is a thing of beauty, 
gleaming in the dew-drop ; singing in the summer rain ; shining in 
the ice-gems till the leaves all seem to turn to hving jewels; spread- 
ing a golden veil over the setting sun, or a white gauze around the 
midnight moon ; sporting in the cataract, sleeping in the glacier, 
dancing in the hail shower, folding its bright snow curtains softly 
about the wintry world, and waving the many-colored iris, tha# 



THE SCHOOLMASTER. 59 



seraph's zone of the sky, whose warp is the raiu-drop of earth, 
whose woof is the sunheam of heaven, all checkered over with 
celestial flowers by the mystic hand of refraction. 

Still always it is beautiful, that life-giving water; no poison 
bubbles on its brink ; its foam brings not madness and mui'der ; no 
blood stains its liquid glass ; pale widows and stai-ving orphans weep 
no burning tears in its depth; no drunken, shrieking ghost from the 
grave curses it in the words of eternal despair. Speak on, my friends, 
would you exchange it for demon's drink, alcohol? 



The Schoolmaster. 

It has been to me a source of pleasure, though a melancholy 
one, that in rendering this jjubhc tribute to the worth of our de- 
parted friend, the respectable members of two bodies, one of them 
most devoted and efficient in its scientific inquiries, the other com- 
prising so many names eminent for philanthropy and learning, 
have met to do honor to the memory of a schoolmaster. 

There are prouder themes for the eulogist than tliis. The 
praise of the statesman, the warrior or the orator furnish more 
splendid topics for ambitious eloquence ; but no theme can be more 
rich in desert or more fruitful in pubhc advantage. 

The enlightened liberahty of many of our state governments, 
— amongst which we may claim a proud distinction for our own — -by 
extending the common school system over their whole population, 
has brought elementary education to the door of every fandly. In 
this State, it appears from the annual reports of the secretary of the 
State, there are, besides the fifty incorporated academies and numer- 
ous private schools, about nine thousand school districts, in each of 
which instruction is regularly given. These contain at present half 
a milhon of children taught in the single State of New York. To 
these may be added nine or ten thousand more youth in the higher 
aeminaries of learning, exclusive of the colleges. 



60 LEISURE HOURS., 



Of what incalculable influence, then, for good or for e\dl, upon 
the dearest interests of society, must be the estimate entertained 
for the character of this great body of teachers, and the consequent 
respectabUity of the individuals who compose it ! 

At the recent general election in this State the votes of above 
three hundred thousand persons were taken. In thirty years the 
great majority of these will have passed away; their rights wiU. be 
exercised and their duties assumed by those very children whose 
minds are now open to receive their earhest and most durable im- 
pressions from the ten thousand schoolmasters of this State. 

What else is there, in the whole of our social system, of such ex- 
tensive and powerful operation on the national character? There 
is one other influence more powerful, and but one. It is that of 
the MoTHEE. The forms of a free government, the provisions of 
wise legislation, the schemes of the statesman, the sacrifices of the 
patriot, are as nothing compared with these. If the future citizens 
of our republic are to be worthy of their rich inheritance, they must 
be made so principally through the virtue and intelligence of their 
mothers. It is in the school of maternal tenderness that the kind 
affections must be first roused and made habitual, the early senti- 
ment of piety awakened and rightly directed, the sense of duty and 
moral responsibihty unfolded and enhghtened. But next in rank 
and in efficacy to that pure and holy source of moral influence is 
that of the schoolmaster. It is powerful already. What would it 
be if in every one of those school districts which we now count by 
annually increasing thousands, there were to be found one teacher 
weU-informed without pedantry, rehgious without bigotry or fanat- 
icism, proud and fond of his profession, and honored in the discharge 
of his duties! How wide would be the intellectual, the moral 
influence of such a body of men ! Many such we have already 
amongst us — men humbly wise and obscurely useful, whom poverty 
cannot depress nor neglect degrade. But to raise up a body of such 
men as numerous as the wants and the dignity of the country de- 
mand, their labors must be fitly remunerated and themselves and 
their calling cherished and honored. 



THE SCHOOLMASTER. 63 



The schoolmaster's occupation is laborious and ungrateful ; its 
rewards are scanty and precarious. He may indeed be, and he 
ought to be, animated by the consciousness of doing good, that 
best of all considerations, that noblest of all motives. But that, 
too, must be often clouded by doubt and uncertainty. Obscure 
and inglorious as his daily occupation may appear to learned 
pride or worldly ambition, yet to be truly successful and happy, 
he must be animated by the spirit of the same great principles 
which inspired the most illustrious benefactors of mankind. If 
he bring to his task high talent and rich acquirements, he 
must be content to look into distant years for the proof that 
his labors have not been wasted, that the ' good seed which 
he daily scatters abroad does not fall on stony ground and 
wither away; or among thorns, to be choked by the cares, the delu- 
sions or the vices of the world. He must solace his toils with the 
same prophetic faith that enabled the greatest of modern philoso- 
phers, amidst the neglect or contempt of his own times, to regard 
himself as sowing the seeds of truth for posterity and the care of 
Heaven. He must arm himself against disappointment and mor- 
tification with a portion of that same noble confidence which soothed 
the greatest of modem poets when weighed down by care and dan- 
ger, by poverty, old age and blindness — still 

"In prophetic dream he saw 
The yonth unborn, with pious awe 
Imbibe each virtue from his sacred page." 

He must know, and he must love to teach his pupils, not the 
meager elements of knowledge, but the secret and the use of their 
own intellectual strength, exciting and enabling ihem hereafter to 
raise for themselves the veil which covers the majestic form of 
Truth. He must feel deeply the reverence due to the youthful 
mind, fraught with mighty though undeveloped energies and affec- 
tions, and mysterious and eternal destinies. Thence he must have 
learnt to reverence himself and his profession and to look upon its 
otherwise ill-requited toils as their own exceeding great reward. 

If such are the difficulties and the discouragements, such the 



64 LEISURE HOURS. 



duties, the motives and the consolations of teachers who are worthy 
of that name and trust, how imperious, then, the obhgation upon 
every enhghtened citizen who knows and feels the value of such 
men to aid them, to cheer them and honor them ! 

But let us not be content with barren honor to buried merit. 
Let us prove our gratitude to the dead by faithfully endeavoring to 
elevate the station, to enlarge the usefulness and to raise the char- 
acter of the schoolmaster amongst us. Thus shall we best testify 
our gratitude to the teachers and guides of our own youth, thus 
best serve our country, and thus most effectually diffuse over our 
land light, and truth, and virtue. 



The Children. 



When the lessons and the tasks are all ended, 

And the school for the day is dismiss'd, 
The little ones gather around me. 

To bid me good-night and be kissed: " 
Oh, the little white arms that encircle 

My neck in their tender embrace ! 
Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven, 

Shedding sunshine of love on my face ! 

«And when they are gone I sit dreaming 

Of my childhood, too lovely to last: 
Of joy that my heart will remember 

While it wakes to the pulse of the past, 
Ere the world and its wickedness made me 

A partner of sorrow and sin; 
When the Glory of God was about me. 

And the glory of gladness within. 



OLD AGE. 67 

'All my heart grows as weak as a woman's, 

And the fountains of feeling will flow, 
When I think of the paths steep and stony, 

Where the feet of the dear ones must go ; 
Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them, 

Of the tempest of Fate blowing wild; 
Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy 

As the innocent heart of a child ! 

'They are idols of hearts and of households; 

They are angels of God in disguise ; 
His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses. 

His glory still gleams in their ejes. 
Those truants from home and from heaven, 

They have made me more manly and mild. 
And I know now how Jesus could liken 

The kingdom of God to a child. 

'I ask not a life for the dear ones, 

All radiant, as others have done, 
But that life may have just enough shadow 

To temper the glare of the sun : 
I would pray God to guard them from evil, 

But my prayer would hound back to myself ; 
Ah ! a seraph may pray for a sinner 

But a sinner must pray for himself. 

'The twig is so easily bended, 

I have banished the rule and the rod ; 
I have taught them the goodness of knowledge. 

They have taught me the goodness of God; 
My heart is the dungeon of darkness. 

Where I shut them for breaking a rule; 
My frown is sufficient correction; 

My love is the law of the school. 



68 LEISUEE HOURS. 



'I shall leave the old house in the autumn, 
To traverse its threshold no mores 

Ah! how I shall sigh for the dear ones 
That meet me each morn at the door ! 

I shall miss the "good nights" and the kisses, 
And the gush of their innocent glee, 

The group on the green, and the flowers 

That are brought every morning for me. 

'I shall miss them at morn and at even, 

Their song in the school and the street; 
T shall miss the low hum of their voices, 

And the tread of their delicate feet. 
When the lessons of life are all ended, 

And Death says, "The school is dismissed!" 
May the Httle ones gather around rae, 

To bid me good night, and be kiss'd!' 




AUTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 69 



Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table. 

[The "Atlantic" obeys the moon, and its luniversary has come 
round again. I have gathered np some hasty notes of my remarks 
made since the last high tides, which I respectfully submit. Please 
to remember this is talk ; just as easy and just as formal as I choose 
to make it.] 

I never saw an author in my hfe — saving, perhaps, one — that 
did not purr as audibly as a full grown domestic cat, on having his 
fur smoothed in the right way by a skilful hand. 

But let me give you a caution. Be very careful how you teU 
an author he is droll. Ten to one he will hate you; and if he 
does, be sure he can do you a mischief, and very probably will. 
Say you cried over his romance or his verses, and he \\t11 love you 
and send you a copy. You can laugh over that as much as you 
like — in private. 

Wonder why authors and actors are ashamed of being funny? 
Why, there are obvious reasons, and deep philosophical ones. The 
clown knows very well that the women are not in love with him, 
but with Hamlet, the fellow in black cloak and plumed hat. Pas- 
sion never laughs. The wit knows that his place is at the tail of 
a procession. 

If you want the deep, underlying reason, I must take more 
time to tell it. There is a perfect consciousness in every form of 
wit — using that term in its general sense — that its essence consists 
in a partial and incomplete view of whatever it touches. It throws 
a single rasy, separated from the rest — red, yeUow, blue, or any 
intermediate shade, — upon an object; never white light; that is the 
province of wisdom. We get beautiful effects from wit, — all the 
prismatic colors,^ — but never the object as it is in fair dayhght. A 
pun, which is a kind of wit, is a different and much shallower trick 
in mental optics, throwing the shadows of two objects so that one 
overHes the other. Poetry uses the rauibow tints for special effects, 



70 LEISUEE HOURS. 



but always keeps its essential object in tbe purest white light of 
truth. Wni you allow me to pursue this subject a little further? 

[They didn't allow me at that time, for somebody happened to 
scrape the floor with his chair just then; which accidental sound, 
as all must have noticed, has the instantaneous effect that the cut- 
ting of the yellow hair by Iris had upon inflexible Dido. It broke 
the charm, and that breakfast was over] . 

Don't flatter yourselves that friendship authorizes you to say 
disagreeable things to your intimates. On the contrary, the nearer 
you come into relation with a person, the more necessary do tact 
and courtesy become. Except in cases of necessity, which are 
rare, leave your friend to learn unpleasant truths from his enemies ; 
they are ready enough to tell them. Good breeding never forgets 
amour propre is universal. When you read the story of the Arch- 
bishop and Gil Bias, you may laugh, if you wiU, at the poor old 
man's delusion; but don't forget that the youth was the greater 
fool of the two, and that his master served such a booby rightly in 
turning him out of doors. 

You need not get up a rebeUion against what I say, if you find 
everything in my sayings is not exactly new. You can't possibly 
mistake a man who means to be honest, for a literary pickpocket. 
I once read an introductory lecture that looked to me too learned 
for its latitude. On examination, I found aU its erudition was 
taken ready made from D'Israeh. If I had been ill-natured, I 
should have shown up the httle great man, who had once belabored 
me in his feeble way. But one can generally teU these wholesale 
thieves easily enough, and they are not worth the trouble of put- 
ting them in the pillory. I doubt the entire novelty of my remarks 
just made on telling unpleasant truths, yet I am not conscious of 
any larceny. 

Neither make too much of flaws and occasional over statements. 
Some persons seem to think that absolute truth, in the form of 
rigidly stated propositions, is aU that conversation admits. This 
is precisely as if a musician should insist on having nothing but 
perfect chords and simple melodies, — no diminished fifths, no flat 



AFTOCRAT OF THE BREAKFAST TABLE. 71 

sevenths, no flourishes, on any account. Now it is fair to say, 
that, just as music must have all these, so conversation must have 
its pai-tial tmths, its embeUished truths, its exaggerated truths. 
It is in its higher forms an artistic product, and admits the deal 
element as much as pictures or statues. One man who is a httle 
too hteral can spoil the talk of a whole table full of men of esprit. 
"Yes," you say, "but who wants to hear fanciful people's nonsense? 
Put the facts to it, and then see where it is!" Ceiiainly, if a man 
is too fond of parados, — if he is flighty and empty, — if, instead of 
striking those fifths and sevenths, those harmonious discords, often 
so much better than the twinned octaves, in the music of thought, 
if, instead of striking these, he jangles the chords, stick a fact into 
him Hke a stiletto. But remember that talking is one of the fine 
arts, — the noblest, the most important, and the most difficult, — 
and that its fluent harmonies may be spoiled by the intrusion of a 
single harsh note. Therefore conversation which is suggestive 
rather than argumentative, which lets out the most of each talker's 
results of thoughts, is commonly the pleasantest and the most 
profitable. It is not easy, at the best, for two persons talking to- 
gether to make the most of each other's thoughts, there are so 
many of them. 

[The company looked as if they wanted an exj)lanation] . 

When John and Thomas, for instance, are talking together, it 
is natural enough that among the six there should be more or less 
confusion and misapprehension. 

[Our landlady tiirned pale ; no doubt she thought there was a 
screw loose in my intellect, — and that involved the probable loss 
of a boarder. A severe looking person, who wears a Spanish cloak 
and a sad cheek, fluted by the j)assions of the melodi'ama, whom I 
understand to be the professional ruffian of the neighboring thea- 
ter, alluded, with a certain hfting of the brow, drawing down the 
corners of the mouth, and somewhat rasping voce di petto, to Fal- 
staff's nine men in buckram. Everybody looked up; I beheve the 
old gentleman opposite was afraid I should seize the carving-knife; 
at any rate, he shd it to one side, as it were carelessly.] 



72 LEISURE HOURS. 



I think, I said, I can make it plain to Benjamin Franklin here, 
that there are at least six personahties distinctly to be recognized as 
taking part in that dialogue between John and Thomas. 

") 1. The real John; known only to his Maker. 
2. John's ideal John; never the real one, and 
Three Johns, y often very unhke him. 

I 3. Thomas's ideal John; never the real John, 
J nor John's John, but often very unhke either. 

il. The real Thomas. 
2. Thomas's ideal Thomas. 
3. John's ideal Thomas. 

Only one of the three Johns is taxed ; only one can be weighed 
on a platform balance ; but the other two are just as important in 
the conversation. Let us suppose the real John to be old, dull, and 
ill-looking. But as the Higher Powers have not conferred on men 
the seeing themselves in the true light, John very possibly con- 
ceives himself to be youthful, witty, and fascinating, and talks 
from the point of view of this ideal. Thomas, again, beheves him 
to be an artful rogue, we will say; therefore he is, so far as Thom- 
as's attitude in the conversation is concerned, an artful rogue, 
though really simple and stupid. The same conditions apply to 
the three Thomases. It follows, that, until a man can be found 
who knows himself as his Maker knows him, or who sees himself 
as others see him, there must be at least six persons engaged in 
every dialogue between two. Of these, the least important, phil- 
osophically speaking, is the one that we have called the real person. 
No wonder two disputants often get angry, when there are six of 
them talking and hstening aU at the same time. 

[A very unphilosophical application of the above remarks was 
made by a young fellow, answering to the name of John, who sits 
near me at the table. A certain basket of peaches, a rare vegeta- 
ble, httle known to boarding-houses, was on its way to me via this 
unlettered Johannes. He appropriated the three that remained in 
the basket, remarking that there was just one piece for him. I 
convinced him that his practical inference was hasty and illogical, 
but in the meantime he had eaten the peaches.] 



JERUSALEM. 73 



The opinions of relatives as to a man's powers are very com- 
monly of little value ; not merely because they sometimes overrate 
their own flesh and blood, as some may suppose; on the contrary, 
they are quite as likely to underrate those whom they have grown 
into the habit of considering hke themselves. The advent of 
genius is hke what florists style the breaking of a seedling tuhp in- 
to what we may call high-caste colors, — ten thousand dingy flowers, 
then one with the divine streak; or, if you prefer it, hke the com- 
ing up in old Jacob's garden of that most gentlemanly little fruit, 
the seek el pear, which I have sometimes seen in shop windows. It 
is a surprise, — there is nothing to accoimt for it. All at once we 
find that twice two make Jive. Nature is fond of what is called 
"gift enterprises." This little book of life which she has given in- 
to the hands of its joint possessors is commonly one of the old story 
books bound over again. Only once in a great while there is a 
stately poem in it, or its leaves are illuminated with the glories of 
art, or they enfold a draft for untold values signed by the million- 
fold millionaire old mother herself. But strangers are commonly, 
the first to find the "gift" that came with the little book. 



Jerusalem. 



The broad noon lingers on the summit of Mount Ohvet, but its 
beam has long left the garden of Gethsemane and the tomb of Absa- 
lom, the waters of Kedron and the dark abyss of Jehosaphat. Full 
faUs its splendor, however, on the opposite city, vivid and defined 
in its silver blaze. A lofty wall, with turrets and towers and fre- 
quent gates, undidates with the unequal ground which it covers, as 
it encircles the lost capital of Jehovah. It is a city of hiUs far more 
famous than those of Eome ; for aU Europe has heard of Zion and 
of Calvary, while the Arab and the Assyrian, and the tribes and 
nations beyond, are as ignorant of the Capitolan and Aventine 
Mounts as they are of the Malvern or the Chiltern Hills. 



74 LEIStBE HOURS. 



The broad steep of Sion crowned with the tower of David; 
nearer still, Mount Moriah, with the gorgeous temple of the God of 
Abraham, but buUt, alas ! by the child of Hagar, and not by Sarah's 
chosen one; close to its cedars and its cypresses, its lofty spires and 
airy arches, the moonhght falls upon Bethesda's pool; further on, 
entered by the gate of St. Stephen, the eye, though 'tis the noon of 
night, traces with ease the Street of Grief, a long, winding ascent 
to a vast cupolaed pile that now covers Calvary — called the Street 
of Grief because there the most illustrious of the human, as well 
as of the Hebrew race, the descendant of King David, and the divine 
son of the favored of women, twice sank under that burden of suf- 
fering and shame which is now throughout all Christendom the 
emblem of triumph and of honor ; passing over groups and masses 
of houses built of stone, with terraced roofs, or surmounted with 
small domes, we reach the hill of Salem, where Melchisedek built 
his mystic citadel; and still remains the hill of Scopas, where Titus 
gazed upon Jerusalem on the eve of his final assault. Titus de- 
stroyed the temple. The religion of Judea has in turn subverted 
the fanes which were raised to his father and to himself in their 
imperial capital; and the God of Abraham, of Isaac, and of Jacob, 
is now worshiped before every altar in Rome. Jerusalem by moon- 
light! 'Tis a fine spectacle, apart from all its indissoluble associa- 
tions of awe and beauty. The mitigating hour softens the austerity 
of a mountain landscape magnificent in outline, however harsh and 
severe in detail; and, while it retains all its subhmity, removes 
much of the savage sternness of the strange and unrivaled scene. 

A fortified city, almost surrounded by ravines, and rising in 
the center of chains of far-spreading hills, occasionally offering, 
through their rocky glens, the gleams of a distant and richer land! 

The moon has sunk behind the Mount of Olives, and the stars 
in the darker sky shine doubly bright over the sacred city. The 
all-pervading stillness is broken by a breeze that seems to have 
traveled over the plain of Sharon from the sea. It wails among 
the tombs and sighs among the cypress groves. The palm-tree 
trembles as it passes, as if it were a spirit of woe. Is it the breeze 



JEEUSALEM. ?7 



T,hat lias traveled, over the plains of Sharon from the sea? Or is 
it the haunting voice of prophets mourning over the city that they 
could not save? Their spirits surely would linger on the land where 
their Creator had deigned to dwell, and over whose impending 
fate Omnipotence had shed human tears. From this mount who 
can but believe that, at the midnight hoiu', from the summit of the 
Ascension, the great departed of Israel assemble to gaze upon the 
battlements of their mystic city? There might be counted heroes 
and sages, who need shrink fi-om no rivalry with the brightest and 
wisest of other lands ; but the lawgiver of the time of the Pharaohs, 
whose laws are still obeyed ; the monarch whose reign has ceased 
for three thousand years, but whose wisdom is a proverb in all 
nations of the earth; the teacher, whose doctrines have modeled 
civihzed Europe — the greatest of legislators, the greatest of admin- 
istrators, and the greatest of reformers — what race, extinct or liv- 
ing, can produce three such men as these? 

The last light is extinguished in the village of Bethany. The 
wailing breeze has become a moaning wind; a white film spreads 
over the purple sky; the stars are veiled; the stars are hid; all be- 
comes as dark as the waters of Kedron and the valley of Jehosaj)hat. 
The tower of David merges into obscurity; no longer glitter the 
minarets of the mosque of Omar; Bethesda's angelic waters, the 
gate of Stephen, the street of sacred sorrow, the hill of Salem, and 
the heights of Scopas, can no longer be discerned. Alone in the 
increasing darkness, while the line of the very walls gradually 
eludes the eye, the church of the Holy Sepulcher is a beacon light. 

And why is the church of the Holy Sepulcher a beacon light? 
Why, when it is already past the noon of darkness, when every 
soul slumbers in Jerusalem, and not a sound disturbs the deep 
repose except the howl of the wild dog crying to the wilder wind— 
why is the cupola of the sanctuary illumined, though the hour 
has long since been numbered when the pilgrims there .kneel and 
the monks pray? 

An armed Turkish guard are bivouacked in the court of the 
church; within the church itself two brethren of the convent of 



78 LEISURE HOUKS. 



Terra Santa keep holy watfch and ward, while at the tomb beneath 
there kneels a solitary youth, who prostrated himself at sunset, and 
who will there pass unmoved the whole of the sacred night. 

Yet the pilgrim is not in communion with the Latin church; 
neither is he of the Church Armenian, or the Church Greek; Ma- 
ronite, Coptic, or Abyssinian — these also are Christian churches 
which cannot call him child. He comes from a distant and a 
northern isle to bow before the tomb of a descendant of the kings 
of Israel, because he, in common with all the people of that isle, 
recognizes in that sublime Hebrew incarnation the presence of a 
Divine Kedeemer. Then why does he come alone? It is not that 
he has availed himself of the inventions of modern science, to 
repair first to a spot which aU his countrymen may equally desire 
to visit, and thus anticipate their hurrying arrival. Before the 
inventions of modern science, all his countrymen used to flock 
hither. Then why do they not now? Is the Holy Land no longer 
hallowed? Is it not the land of sacred and mysterious truths? 
The land of heavenly messages and earthly miracles? The land of 
prophets and apostles? Is it not the land upon whose mountains 
the Creator of the universe parleyed with man, and the flesh of 
whose anointed race He mystically assumed when he struck 
the last blow at the powers of evil? Is it to be believed that there 
are no peculiar and eternal qualities in a land thus visited, which 
distinguished it from aU others — that Palestine is like Normandy, 
or Yorkshire, or even Attica or Eome? 

There may be some who maintain this ; there have been some, 
and those, too, among the wisest and the Anttiest of the northern 
and western races, who, touched by a presumptuous jealousy of the 
long predominance of that oriental intellect to which they owed 
their civilization, would have persuaded themselves and the world 
that the traditions of Sinai and Calvary were fables. Half a cen- 
tury ago Europe made a violent and apparently successful effort to 
disembarrass itself of its Asian faith. The most powerful and the 
most civilized of its kingdoms, about to conquer the rest, shut up 
its churches, desecrated its altars, massacred and persecuted their 

15 



JERUSALEM. 79 



sacred servants, and announced that the Hebrew creeds which 
Simon Peter brought from Palestine, and which his successors 
revealed to Clovis, were a mockery and a fiction. What has been 
the result? In every city, town, village and hamlet of that great 
kingdom, the divine image of the most illustrious of Hebrews has 
been again raised amid the homage of kneehng miUions ; while in 
the heart of its bright and witty capital the nation has erected the 
most gorgeous of modern temples, and consecrated its marble and 
golden walls to the name, and memory, and celestial efficacy of a 
Hebrew woman. The country of which the solitary pilgrim, kneel- 
ing at this moment at the Holy Sepulchre, was a native, had not 
actively shared in that insurrection against the first and second Tes- 
tament which distinguished the end of the eighteenth century. But 
more than six hmidred years before, it had sent its king and the 
flower of its peers and people, to rescue Jerusalem from those whom 
they considered infidels! and now, instead of the third crusade, 
they expand their superfluous energies in the construction of rail- 
roads. 

The failure of the European kingdom of Jerusalem, on which 
such vast treasure, such prodigies of valor and such ardent belief 
had been wasted, has been one of those circumstances which have 
tended to disturb the faith of Europe, although it should have car- 
ried convictions of a very different character. The Crusaders looked 
upon the Saracens as infidels, whereas the children of the desert 
bore a much nearer affinity to the sacred corpse that had, for a brief 
space, consecrated the Holy Sepulchre, than any of the invading 
host of Europe. The same blood flowed in their veins, and they 
recognized the divine missions both of Moses and of his greater suc- 
cessor. In an age so deficient in physiological learning as the 
twelfth century, the mysteries of race were unknown. Jerusalem, 
it cannot be doubted, -will ever remain the appendage either of Israel 
or of Ishmael; and if, in the course of those great vicissitudes 
which are no doubt impending for the East, there be any attempt to 
place upon the throne of David a prince of the House of Coburg or 
Deuxponts, the same fate wiU doubtless await him, as, with all 



80 LEISURE HOURS. 



their brilliant qualities and all the sympathy of Europe, was the 
final doom of the Godfreys, the Baldwins, and the Lusignans. 



Pictures of Swiss Scenery and of the City of 
Venice. 

It was in Switzerland that I first felt how constantly to con- 
template sublime creation develops the poetic power. It was here 
that I fiist began to study nature. Those forests of black, gigantic 
pines rising out of the deep snows; those tall, white cataracts, leap- 
ing like headst/ong youth into the world, and dashing from their 
precipices as if ailnred by the beautiful delusion of their own rain- 
bow mist; those mighty clouds saihng beneath my feet, or chnging 
to the bosoms of the dark green mountains, or boHing up hke a 
speU from the invisible and unfathomable depths; the fell ava- 
lanche, fleet as a spirit of evil, terrific when it suddenly breaks up- 
on the almighty silence, scarcely less terrible when we gaze upon 
its crumbling and palhd frame, varied only by the presence of one 
or two blasted firs; the head of a mountain loosening from its 
brother peak, rooting up, in the roar of its rapid rush, a whole for- 
est of pines, and covering the earth for miles with elephantine 
masses; the supernatural extent of landscape that opens to us new 
worlds ; the strong eagles and the strange wild birds that suddenly 
cross you in your path, and stare, and shrieking fly — and all the 
soft sights of joy and lovehness that mingle with these sublime and 
savage spectacles, the rich pastures and the numerous flocks, and 
the golden bees and the wild flowers, and the carved and painted 
cottages, and the simple manner and the primeval grace — wherever 
I moved, I was in turn appalled or enchanted ; but whatever I be- 
held, new images ever sprang up in my mind, and new feehngs 
ever crowded on my fancy. • • • • 

If I were to assign the particular quahty which conduces to 
that dreamy and voluptuous existence which men of high imagina- 



A GOOD MANS DAY. 81 



tion experience in Venice, I should describe it as the feeling of 
abstraction, which is remarkable in that city, and peciihar to it. 
Venice is the only city which can yield the magical dehghts of soh- 
tude. All is still and silent. No rude sound disturbs your reveries ; 
fancy, therefore, is not put to flight. No rude sound distracts your 
self-consciousness. This renders existence intense. We feel every- 
thing. And we feel thus keenly in a city not only eminently beau- 
tiful, not only abounding in wonderful creations of art, but each 
step of which is hallowed ground, quick with associations, that in 
their more various nature, their nearer relation to ourselves, and 
perhaps their more picturesque character, exercise a greater influ- 
ence over the imagination than the more antique story of Greece 
and Eome. We feel aU this in a city, too, which, although her lus- 
ter be indeed dimmed, can still coimt among her daughters, maidens 
fairer than the orient pearls with which her warriors once loved to 
deck them. Poetry, Tradition, and Love — these are the Graces 
that invested with an ever charming cestus this Aphrodite of cities. 



A Good Man's Day. 

Every day is a little life ; and our whole life is but a day 
repeated; whence it is that old Jacob numbers his life by days; 
Moses desires to be taught this point of holy arithmetic, to number 
not his years, but his days. Those, therefore, that dare lose a day, 
are dangerously prodigal ; those that dare misspend it, desperate. 
We can best teach others by ourselves ; let me teU your lordship 
how I would pass my days, whether common or sacred, that you 
(or whosoever others overhearing me,) may either approve my 
thriftiness, or correct my errors; to whom is the account of my 
hours either more due, or more known. AU days are His who 
gave time a beginning and continuance; yet some He hath made 
ours, not to command, but to use. 

In none may we forget him; in some we must forget all be- 



82 LEISURE HOUBS., 



sides Him. First, therefore, I desire to wake at those hours, not 
when I will, hut when I must; pleasure is not a fit rule for rest, 
hut health; neither do I consult so much with the sun, as mine 
own necessity, whether of body or in that of mind. If this vassal 
could well serve me waking, it should never sleep ; but now it must 
be pleased, that it may be serviceable. Now, when sleep is rather 
driven away than leaves me, I would ever awake with God; my 
first thoughts are for Him who hath made the night for rest and 
the day for travel; and as He gives, so blesses both. If my heart 
be early seasoned with His presence, it will savor of Him aU day 
after. While my body is dressing, not with an effeminate curios- 
ity, nor yet with rude neglect, my mind addresses itself to her 
ensuing task, bethinking what is to be done, and in what order, 
and marshalling (as it may) my hours with my work; that done, 
after some while's meditation, I walk up to my masters and com- 
panions, my books, and sitting down amongst them with the best 
contentment, I dare not reach forth my hand to salute any of 
them, tiU I have first looked up to heaven, and craved favor of Him 
to whom all my studies are duly referred; without whom I can 
neither profit nor labor. After this, out of no over great variety, I 
caU forth those which may best fit my occasions, wherein I am not 
too scrupulous of age. Sometimes I put myself to school to one 
of those ancients whom the Church hath honored with the name of 
Fathers, whose volumes I confess not to open without a secret rev- 
erence of their hohness and gravity; sometimes to those later doc- 
tors, which want nothing but age to make them classical; always 
to Grod's Book. That day is lost whereof some hours are not im- 
proved in those divine monuments ; others I turn over out of choice ; 
these out of duty. Ere I can have sat unto weariness, my family, 
having now overcome aU household distractions, invites me to our 
common devotions ; not without some short preparation. These, 
heartily performed, send me up with a more strong and cheerful 
appetite to my former work, which I find made easy to me by inter- 
mission and variety; now, therefore, can I deceive the hours %vith 
change of pleasures, that is, of labors. One while mine eyes are 



A GOOD MANS DAY. 83 



busied, another while my hand, and sometimes my mind te,kes the 
burden from them both; wherein I would imitate the sldhullest 
cooks, which make the best dishes mth manifold mixtures; one 
hour is spent in textual divinity, another in controversy; histories 
reheve them both. Now, when the mind is weary of others' la- 
bors, it begins to undertake her own; sometimes it meditates and 
winds up for future use ; sometimes it lays forth her conceits into 
present discourse; sometimes for itself, after for others. Neither 
know I whether it works or plays in these thoughts. I am sure no 
5port hath more pleasure, no work more use; only the decay of a 
weak body makes me think these delights insensibly laborious. 
Thus could I all day (as singers use) make myself music with 
changes, and complain sooner of the day for shortness than of the 
business for toil, were it not that this faint monitor interrupts me 
stiU in the midst of my busy pleasures, and enforces me both to 
respite and repast. I must yield to both ; while my body and mind 
are joined together in these imequal couples, the better mustfoUow 
the weaker. Before my meals, therefore, and after, I let myself 
loose from all thoughts, and now would forget that I ever studied; 
a full mind takes away the body's appetite, no less than a full body 
makes a dull and un wieldly mnid; company, discourse, recreations, 
are now seasonable and welcome; these prepare me for a diet, not 
gluttonous, but medicinal. The palate may not be pleased, but the 
stomach, nor that for its own sake ; neither would I think any of 
these comforts worth respect in themselves but in their use, in their 
end, so far as they may enable me to better things. If I see any 
dish to tempt my palate, I fear a serpent in that apple, and would 
please myself in a wilful denial; I rise capable of more, not desir- 
ous; not now immediately from my trencher to my book, but after 
some intermission. Moderate speed is a sure help to all proceed- 
ings; where those things which are prosecuted with violence of 
endeavor or desire, either succeed not or continue not. 

After my later meal, my thoughts are slight, only my memory 
may be charged with her task of recalling what was committed to 
her custody in the day ; and my heart is busy in examining my 



84 LEISURE HOL-RS. 



hands and mouth, and all other senses of that day's hehavior. 
And now the evening is come ; no tradesman doth more carefully 
take in his wares, clear his shopboard, and shut his window, 
than I would shut up my thoughts and clear my mind. That 
student shall hve miserably, which hke a camel has down under 
his burden. All this done, calling together my family, we end 
the day with God; thus do we rather drive away the time before 
us than follow it. I grant neither is my practice worthy to be 
exemplary, neither are our calhngs proportionable. The life of 
a nobleman, of a courtier, of a scholar, of a citizen, of a country- 
man, differ no less than their dispositions; yet must all conspire in 
honest labor. 

Sweat is the destiny of all trades, whether of the brows or of 
the mind. God never allowed any man to do nothing. How mis- 
erable is the condition of those men who spend the time as if it 
were given them, and not lent; as if hours were waste creatures, 
and such as should never be accounted for; as if God would take 
this for a good bill of reckoning : Item, spent upon my pleasures 
forty years ! These men shall once find that no blood can privilege 
idleness, and that nothing is more precious to God than that which 
they desire to cast away — time. Such are my common days ; but 
God's day calls for another respect. The same sun arises on this 
dayj and enlightens it; yet because that Sun of Eighteousness 
arose on it, and drew the strength of God's moral precept unto it, 
therefore justly do we sing with the Psalmist, "This is the day 
which the Lord hath made." Now I forget the world, and in a 
sort myself; and deal with my wonted thoughts, as great men use, 
who, at some times of their privacy, forbid the access of all suitors. 
Prayer, meditation, reading, hearing, preaching, singing, good con- 
ference, are the businesses of this day, which I dare not bestow on 
any work, or pleasure, but heavenly. 

I hate superstition on the one side, and looseness on the other; 
but I find it hard to offend in too much devotion, easy in profane- 
ness. The whole week is sanctified by this day; and according to 
my care of this is my blessing on the rest. I show your lordship 



SILENT FORCES. 85 



what I would do, and what I ought; I commit my desires lo the 
imitation of the weak, my actions to the censures of the wise and 
holy, my weaknesses to the pardon and redress of my merciful God. 



Silent Forces. 



I have seen the wild stone avalanches of the Alps, which smoke 
and thunder down the dechvities with a vehemence almost sufficient 
to stun the observer. I have also seen snowflakes descending so 
softly as not to hurt the fragile spangles of which they were com- 
posed; yet to produce from aqueous vapor a quantity of that tender 
material which a child could carry, demands an exertion of energy 
competent to gather up the shattered blocks of the largest stone 
avalanche I have ever seen, and pitch them to twice the height frojn 
which they fell. 




86 LEISURE HOURS. 



Rural Life in S-weden, 

There is something patriarchal still hngering about rural Hfe 
lu Sweden, which renders it a fit theme for song. Almost primeval 
simplicity reigns over that northern land — almost primeval sohtude 
and stillness. You pass out from the gate of the city, and, as if by 
magic, the scene changes to a wild woodland landscape. Around 
you are forests of fir. Overhead hang the long, fan-like branches, 
trailing with moss and heavy with red and blue cones. Under 
foot is a carpet of yellow leaves, and the air is warm and balmy. 
On a wooden bridge you cross a little sUver stream; and anon come 
forth into a pleasant and sunny land of farms. Wooden fences 
divide the adjoining fields. Across the road are gates, which are 
opened by troops of children. The peasants take off their hats as 
you pass; you sneeze, and they cry, "God bless you!" The houses 
in the villages and smaller towns are aU built of hewn timber, and for 
the most part painted red. The floors of the taverns are strewed with 
the fragrant tips of fir boughs. In many viUages there are no tav- 
erns, aiidthe peasants take turns in receiving travelers. The thrifty 
housewife shows you into the best chamber, the walls of ^. jich are 
hung round with rude pictures from the Bible ; and brings you her 
heavy silver spoons — an heirloom — to dip the curdled milk from the 
pan. You have oaten cakes baked some months before, or bread 
with anise-seed and coriander in it, or perhaps a little pine bark. 
Meanwhile the sturdy husband has brought his horses from the 
plow, and harnessed them to your carriage. Solitary travelers 
come and go in uncouth one-horse chaises. Most of them have 
pipes in their mouths, and hanging around their necks in front, a 
leather wallet, in which they carry tobacco, and the great bank notes 
of the country, as large as your two hands. You meet also groups 
of Dalekarlian peasant women, traveling homeward or town ward in 
pursuit of work. They walk barefoot, carrying in their hands 



RURAL LIFE IN SWEDEN. 87 

their shoes, which have high heels under the hollow of the foot, and 
soles of birch bark. 

Frequent, too, are the village churches standing by the road- 
sides, each in its own httle garden of Gethsemane. In the parish 
register great events are doubtless recorded. Some old king was 
christened or buried in that church; and a httle sexton, mth a rusty 
key, shows you the baptismal font or the coffin. In the church- 
yard are a few flowers and much green grass ; and daily the shadow 
of the church spire with its long, tapering finger, counts the tombs, 
representing a dial-j)late of human life on which the hours and min- 
utes are the graves of men. The stones are flat, and large, and low, 
and perhaps sunken, hke the roofs of old houses. On some are 
armorial bearings ; on others only the initials of the poor tenants, 
with a date, as on the roofs of Dutch cottages. They all sleep 
with their heads to the westward. Each held a lighted taper in his 
hand when he died, and in his coffin were placed his little heart- 
treasures, and a piece of money for his last journey. Babes that 
came lifeless into the world were carried in the arms of gray-haired 
old men to the only cradle they ever slept in ; and in the shroud of 
the dead mother were laid the httle garments of the child that lived 
and died in her bosom. And over this scene the village pastor looks 
from his window in the stillness of midnight, and says in his heart, 
" How quietly they rest, all the departed!" 

Near the churchyard gate stands a poor-box, fastened to a post 
by iron bands, and secured by a padlock, with a sloping wooden 
roof to keep off the rain. If it be Sunday, the peasants sit on the 
church steps and con their psalm-books. Others are coming down 
the road with their beloved pastor, who talks to them of holy things 
from beneath his broad-brimmed hat. He speaks of fields and har- 
vests, and of the parable of the sower, that went forth to sow. He 
leads them to the Good Shepherd, and to the pleasant pastures of 
the Spirit-land. He is their patriarch, and, hke Melchizedek, both 
priest and king, though he has no other throne than the church 
pulpit. The women carry psalm-books in their hands, wrapped in 
silk handkerchiefs, and hsten devoutly to the good man's words; 



88 LEISURE HOURS. 



but the young men, like Galileo, care for none of these things. They 
are busy counting the plaits in the kirtles of the peasant girls, their 
number being an indication of the wearer's wealth. It may end in 
a wedding. 

I will endeavor to describe a village wedding in Sweden. It 
shall be in Summer time, that there may be flowers, and in a south- 
em province, that the bride may be fair. The early song of the 
lark and of chanticleer are minghng in the clear morning air, and 
the sun, the heavenly bridegroom with golden locks, arises in the 
east, just as our earthly bridegroom, with yeUow hair, arises in the 
south. In the yard there is a sound of voices and tramphng of 
hoofs, and horses are led forth and saddled. The steed that is to 
bear the bridegroom has a bunch of flowers upon his forehead, and 
a garland of corn flowers around his neck. Friends from the neigh- 
boring farms come riding in, their blue cloaks streaming to the wind; 
and finally the happy bridegroom, with a whip in his hand, and a 
monstrous nosegay in the breast of his black jacket, comes forth 
from his chamber; and then to horse and away toward the village., 
where the bride already sits and waits. 

Foremost rides the spokesman, followed by some half-dozen 
village musicians. Next comes the bridegroom between his two 
groomsmen; and then forty or fifty friends and wedding guests, 
half of them perhaps with pistols and guns in their hands. A kind 
of baggage wagon brings up the rear, laden with food and drink for 
these merry pilgrims. At the entrance of every village stands a 
triumphal arch, adorned with flowers, and ribands, and evergreens; 
and, as they pass beneath it, the wedding guests fire a salute, and 
the whole procession stops ; and straight from every pocket flies a 
black-jack, filled with punch or brandy. It is passed from hand to 
hand among the crowd; provisions are brought from the wagon, 
and, after eating and drinking and hurrahing, the procession moves 
forward again, and at length draws near the house of the bride. 
Pour heralds ride forward to announce that a knight and his attend- 
ants are in the neighboring forest, and pray for hospitality, " How 
many are you?" asks the bride's father. "At least three hundred," 




«De',\'RY "WADSWORTH LONGFELLO-M-- 



EURAL LIFE IN SWEDEN. 91 

is the answer; and to this the last replies, "Yes, were you seven 
times as many, you should aU be welcome ; and in token thereof 
receive this cup," Whereupon each herald receives a can of ale; 
and soon after the whole jovial company comes storming into the 
farmer's yard, and, riding around the Maypole, which stands in the 
center, ahght amid a grand salute and flourish of music. In the 
haU sits the bride, with a crown upon her head and a tear in 
her eye, like the Virgin Maiy in old church paintings. She is 
dressed in a red bodice and kirtle, with loose linen sleeves. There 
is a gilded belt around her waist, and around her neck strings of 
golden beads, and a golden chain. On the crown rests a wreath of 
wild roses, and below it another of cypress. Loose over her shoul- 
ders faUs her flaxen hair, and her blue innocent eyes are fixed upon 
the ground. thou good soul ! thou hast hard hands, but a soft 
heart. Thou art poor. The very ornaments thou wearest are not 
thine. They have been hired for this great day. Yet thou art 
rich, rich in health, rich in hope, rich in thy first, young, fervent 
love. The blessing of Heaven be upon thee ! So thinks the parish 
priest as he joins together the hands of bride and bridegroom, say- 
ing in deep, solemn tones, " I give thee in marriage this damsel, to 
be thy wedded wife in aU honor, and to share the half of thy bed, 
thy lock and key, and every third penny which you two may pos- 
sess, or may inherit, and aU the rights which upland's laws provide, 
and the holy King Erik gave." 

The dinner is now served, and the bride sits between the bride- 
groom and the priest. The spokesman dehvers an oration after the 
ancient custom of his fathers. He interlards it well with quotations 
from the Bible, and invites the Savior to be present at this marriage 
feast, as he was at the marriage feast of Cana of Galilee. The ta- 
ble is not sparingly set forth. Each makes a long arm, and the 
feast goes cheerily on. Punch and brandy pass round between the 
courses, and here and there a pipe is smoked while waiting for the 
next dish. They sit long at table; but, as aU things must have an 
end, so must a Swedish dinner. Then the dance begins. It is led 
off by the bride and the priesTJp <^iiC perform a solemn minuet 



92 LEISUEE HOUES. 



together. Not till after midniglit comes the last dance. The girls 
form a ring around the bride, to keep her from the hands of the mar- 
ried women, who endeavor to break through the magic circle, and 
seize their new sister. After long struggling they succeed ; and the 
crown is taken from her head and the jewels from her neck, and 
her bodice is unlaced, and her kirtle taken off, and, like a vestal 
virgin, clad all in white, she goes, — but it is to her marriage 
chamber, not to her grave ; and the wedding guests follow her with 
lighted candles in their hands. And this is a village bridal. 

Nor must I forget the suddenly changing seasons of the north- 
ern chme. There is no long and lingering Spring, unfolding leaf 
and blossom one by one ; no long and lingering Autumn, pomj)ous 
with many colored leaves and the glow of Indian Summers. But 
Winter and Summer are wonderful, and pass into each other. The 
quail has hardly ceased piping in the corn, when Winter, from the 
folds of trailing clouds, sows broadcast over the land snow, icicles, 
and rattling hail. The days wane apace. Ere long the sun hardly 
rises above the horizon, or does not rise at aU. The moon and the 
stars shine through the day; only, at noon, they are jjale and wan, 
and in the southern sky a red, fiery glow, as of sunset, burns along 
the horizon, and then goes out. And pleasantly under the silver 
moon, and under the silent, solemn stars, ring the steel shoes of the 
skaters on the frozen sea, and voices, and the sound of beUs. 

And now the northern lights begin to burn, faintly at first, like 
sunbeams playing on the waters of the blue sea. Then a soft crim- 
son glow tinges the heavens. There is a blush on the cheek of 
night. The colors come and go, and change from crimson to gold, 
from gold to crimson. The snow is stained with rosy light. Two- 
fold from the zenith, east and west, flames a fiery sword; and a 
broad band passes athwart the heavens like a Summer sunset. Soft 
purple clouds come sailing over the sky, and through their vapory 
folds the winking stars shine white as silver. With such pomp as 
this is merry Christmas ushered in — though only a single star her- 
alded the first Christmas. And in memory of that day the Swedish 
peasants dance on straw, r-nf mIQ peasant girls throw straws at the 



EURAL LIFE IN SWEDEN. 93 

timbered roof of the ball, and for every one tbat sticks in a crack shall 
a groomsman come to their wedding. Merry Christmas, indeed! 
For pious souls there shall be church songs and sermons, but for 
Swedish peasants brandy and nut-brown ale in wooden bowls; and 
the great Yule-cake, crowned with a cheese, and garlanded with ap- 
ples, and upholding a three-armed candle-stick over the Christmas 
feast. They may tell tales, too, of Jons Lundsbracka, and Lun- 
kenfus, and the great Eiddar-Finke of Pingsdaga. 

And now the glad, leafy Midsummer, full of blossoms and the 
song of nightingales, is come! Saint John has taken the flowers 
and festival of heathen Balder ; and in every village there is a May- 
pole fifty feet high, with wreaths and roses, and ribands streaming 
in the -wind, and a noisy weathercock on the top to tell the village 
whence the wind cometh and whither it goeth. The sun does not 
set till 10 o'clock at night, and the children are at play in the streets 
an hour later. The windows and doors are all open, and you may 
sit and read till midnight without a candle. Oh, how beautiful is 
the Summer night, which is not night, but a sunless yet unclouded 
day, descending upon earth with dews and shadows, and refreshing 
coolness ! How beautiful the long, mild twihght, which, like a sil- 
ver clasp, unites to-day with yesterday ! How beautiful the silent 
hour, when morning and evening thus sit together, hand in hand, 
beneath the starless sky of midnight ! From the church tower in 
the public square the bell tolls the hour with a soft, musical chime, 
and the watchman, whose watch-tower is the belfry, blows a blast 
on his horn for each stroke of the hammer, and four times to the 
four corners of the heavens, in a sonorous voice he chants : 

"Hoi watchman, ho! 
Twelve is the clock! 
God keep our town 
From fire and brand, 
And hostile hand! 
Twelve is the clock!" 

From his swallow's nest in the belfry he can see the sun all 
night long ; and farther north the priest stands at his door in the 
warm midnight and Hghts his pipe with a common burning-glass. 



94 LEISUEE HOURS. 



"Alone." 

The back so oft times bent in toil's dumb prayer, 
Amid the fields, is stricken straight by Death; 
But silence on her lips is sweeter breath 

Than sighing life ; her face is smoothed of care 

Like some sea-pool be-rippled, then left bare 
To list and learn what night to ocean saith, 
To gaze upon each star that wandereth, 

And calmly shine with Heaven's own secret there. 

Soul- hungered men and women! who shall tell, 
Save Death, what is this Life of love and strife, 
And what the answer for such dark Surprise. 

As stands between these two that loved so well? 
Her ears are tuned to some supernal life; 
'Tis his seem hearkening for a sound that dies. 



"When Bessie Died. 

If from your own tiie dimpled hands had slipped. 
And ne'er would nestle in your palm again ; 
If the white feet Into the grave had tripped — 

When Bessie died — 

We braided the brown hair, and tied 

It just as her own little hands 

Had fastened back the silken strands 

A thousand times — the crimson bit 

Of ribbon woven into it 



WHEN BESSIE DIED. 97 



That she had worn with childish pride — 
Smoothed down the dainty bow — and cried- 
When Bessie died. 

When Bessie died — 

We drew the nursery blinds aside, 

And, as the morning in the room 

Burst like a primrose into bloom. 

Her pet canary's cage we hung 

Where she might hear him when he sung — 

And yet not any note he tried, 

Though she lay listening folded-eyed. 

When Bessie died — 

We writhed in prayer unsatisfied; 

We begged of God, and He did smile 

In silence on us all the while ; 

And we did see Him through our tears, 

Enfolding that fair form of hers, 

She laughing back against His love 

The kisses we had nothing of — 

And death to us He still denied, 

When Bessie died — 

When Bessie died. 




98 LEISURE HOURS. 



Precipices of the Alps. 

Dark iu color, robed with everlasting mourBing, forever totter- 
ing like a great fortress shaken by war, fearful as much in their 
weakness as in their strength, and yet gathered after every fall into 
darker frowns and unhumiliating threatening ; forever incapable of 
comfort or healing from herb or flower, nourishing no root in their 
crevices, touched by no hr.e of life on buttress or ledge, but to the 
utmost desolate ; knowing no shaking of leaves in the mnd, nor of 
grass beside the stream — no other motion but their own mortal 
shivering, the dreadful crumbhng of atom from atom in their cor- 
rupting stones; knowing no sound of living voice or hving tread, 
cheered neither by the kid's bleat nor the marmot's cry ; haunted 
only by uninterrupted echoes from afar off, wandering hither and 
thither among their walls unable to escape, and by the hiss of 
angry torrents, and sometimes the shriek of a bird that flits near 
the face of them, and sweeps, frightened, back from under their 
shadow into the gulf of air; and sometimes, when the echo has 
fainted, and the wind has carried the sound of the torrent away, 
and the bird has vanished, and the moldering stones are still for a 
little time — a brown moth, opening and shutting its wings upon a 
grain of dust, may be the only thing that moves or feels in all the 
waste of weary precipice darkening five thousand feet of the blue 
depth of heaven. 



The Fall of the Leaf. 

If ever, in Autumn, a pensiveness falls ui)on us as the leaves 
drift by in their fading, may we not wisely look up in hope to their 
mighty monuments? Behold how fair, how far prolonged in arch 
and aisle, the avenues of the vaUeys, the fringes of the hills ! So 



THE SKY. 99 

stately — so eternal; the joy of man, the comfort of aJl living creat- 
ures, the glory of the earth — they are hut the monuments of those 
poor leaves that flit faintly past us to die. Let them not pass 
without our understanding their last counsel and example ; that we 
also, careless of monument by the grave, may build it in the world 
— monument by which men may be taught to remember, not where 
we died, but where we hved. 



The Sky, 



Not long ago I was slowly descending the carriage road after 
you leave Albano. It had been wild weather when I left Eome, and 
all across the Campagna the clouds were sweeping in sulphurous 
blue, with a clap of thunder or two, and breaking gleams of sun 
along the Claudian aqueduct, hghting up its arches lilce the bridge 
of chaos. But as I chmbed the long slope of the Alban mount, the 
storm swept finally to the north, and the noble outhne of the domes 
of Albano and the graceful darkness of its Hex grove rose against 
pure streaks of alternate blue and amber, the upper sky gradually 
flushing through the last fragments of rain-cloud, in deep jjalpitating 
azure, half ether and half dew. The noon-day smi came slanting 
down the rocky slopes of La Kicca, and its masses of entangled and 
taU foliage, whose autumnal tints were mixed with the wet verdure 
of a thousand evergreens, were penetrated with it as with rain. I 
cannot call it color, it was conflagration. Pui-ple, and crimson and 
scarlet, like the curtains of God's tabernacle, the rejoicing trees 
sank into the valley in showers of light, every separate leaf quivering 
with buoyant and burning hfe ; each, as it turned to reflect or to 
transmit the sunbeam, first a torch and then an emerald. Far up 
into the recesses of the vaUey, the green vistas, arched like the hol- 
lows of mighty waves of some crystalline sea, Avith the arbutus 
flowers dashed along their flanks for foam, and silver flakes of 



100 LEISURE HOTJKS. 



orange spray tossed into tlie air around them, breaking over the 
gray walls of rock into a thousand separate stars, fading and kind- 
hng alternately as the weak wind lifted and let them fall. Every 
blade of grass burned hke the golden floor of heaven opening in 
sudden gleams as the fohage broke and closed above it, as sheet 
lightning opens in a cloud at sunset the motionless masses of dark 
rock — dark, though flushed with scarlet lichen, casting their quiet 
shadows across its restless radiance, the fountain underneath them 
filling its marble hollow with blue mist and fitful sound, and, over 
all, — the midtitudinous bars of amber and rose, the sacred clouds 
that have no darkness, and only exist to illumine, were seen in in- 
tervals between the solemn and orbed repose of the stone pines, 
passing to lose themselves in the last, white, blinding luster of the 
measureless line where the Campagna melted into the blaze of the sea. 



Are not all natural things, it may be asked, as lovely near as 
far away? By no means. Look at the clouds and watch the deli- 
cate sculpture of their alabaster sides, and the rounded luster of 
their magnificent rolling. They are meant to be beheld far away: 
they were shaped for their place high above your head : approach 
them and they fuse into vague mists, or whirl away in fierce frag- 
ments of thunderous vapor. Look at the crest of the Alp from the 
far away plains over which its light is cast, whence human souls 
have communed with it by their myriads. It was built for its place 
in the far off sky : approach it, and as the sound of the voice of man 
dies away about its foundations, and the tide of human life is met 
at last by the eternal "Here shall thy waves be stayed," the glory 
of its aspect fades into blanched f earfulness : its purple walls a,re 
rent into grisly rocks, its silver fret-work saddened into wasting 
snow : the storm-brands of ages are on its breast, the ashes of its 
own ruin He solemnly on its white raiment. 

If you desire to perceive the great harmonies of the form of a rocky 
mountain, you must not ascend upon its sides. All there is disorder 
and accident, or seems so. Eetire from it, and as your eye commands 



THE OLD CHURCHYARD. 101 

it more and more, you see the ruined mountain world with a wider 
glance; behold! dim sympathies begin to busy themselves in the 
disjointed mass: Hne binds itself into stealthy fellowship with hne: 
group by group the helpless fragments gather themselves into 
ordered companies : new captains of hosts, and masses of battahons 
become visible one by one; and far away answers of foot to foot 
and of bone to bone, until the powerless is seen risen up with girded 
loins, and not one piece of all the unregarded heap can now be 
spared from the mystic whole. 



Ttie Old CtLurchyard. 

The next day, the day of the resurrection, rose glorious from 
its sepulchre of sea-fog and drizzle. It had poured aU night long, 
but at sunrise the clouds had broken and scattered, and the air was 
the purer for the cleansing rain, while the earth shone with that 
pecuUar luster which follows the weeping which has endured its 
appointed night. The larks were at it again, singing as if their 
hearts would break for joy as they hovered in brooding exultation 
over the song of the future ; for their nests beneath hoarded a wealth 
of larks for Summers to come. Especially about the old churchyard, 
half buried in the ancient trees of Lossie House, the birds that day 
were jubilant; their throats seemed too narrow to let out the joyful 
air that filled aU their hollow bones and qmlls ; they sang as if they 
must sing or choke with too much gladness. Beyond the short 
spire and its shining cock rose the balls and stars and arrowy 
vanes of the house, ghttering in gold and sunshine. The inward 
hush of the resurrection, broken only by the prophetic birds, the 
poets of the groaning and travaihng creation, held time and space 
as in a trance ; and the center from which radiated both the hush 
and the carohng expectation seemed to Alexander Graham to be 
the churchyard in which he was now walking in the cool of the 



102 LEISURE HOURS. 



morning. It was more carefully kept than most Scottish church- 
yards, and yet was not too trim ; nature had a word in the affair — 
was allowed her part of mourning in long grass and moss and the 
crumbhng away of stone. The wholesomeness of decay, which 
both in nature and humanity is but the miry road back to life, was 
not unrecognized here, there was nothing of the hideous attempt 
to hide death in the garments of hfe. The master walked about 
gently, now stopping to read some well-known inscription, and 
ponder for a moment over the words ; and now wandering across 
the stoneless mounds, content to be forgotten by aU but those who 
loved the departed. At length he seated himself on a slab by the 
side of the mound that rose but yesterday ; it was sculptu.red with 
symbols of decay — needless, surely, where the originals lay about 
the mouth of every newly-opened grave, as surely ill befitting the 
precincts of a church whose indwelling gospel is of life victorious 
over death! "What are these stones," he said to himself, "but 
monuments to oblivion!" They are not memorials of the dead, but 
memorials of the forgetfulness of the Hving. How vain it is to 
send a poor forsaken name, hke the title-page of a lost book, down 
the careless stream of time! Let me serve my generation, and 
may God remember me ! 



Homa 



Society is marked by greater and smaller divisions, as into 
nations, communities, and families. A man is a member of the 
commonwealth, a smaller community, as a hamlet or city, and his 
family at the same time ; and the more perfectly aU his duties to his 
family are discharged, the more fully does he discharge his duties 
to the community and the nation ; for a good member of a family 
cannot be a bad member of the commonwealth, for he that is faith- 
ful in what is least will also be faithful in what is greater. Indeed, 



HOME. 



103 



the more perfectly a man fxilfiUs all his domestic duties, the more 
perfectly, in that very act, has he discharged his duty to the 
whole; for the whole is made up of parts, and its health depends 
entirely upon the health of the various parts. There are, of course, 
general as well as specific duties ; but the more conscientious a man 
is in the discharge of specific duties, the more ready will he be to 
perform those that are general; and we beheve that the converse of 
this -will be found equally true, and that those who have least regard 
for home — who have, indeed, no home, no domestic circle — are the 
worst citizens. This they may not be apparently; they may not 
break the laws, nor do anything to call doAvn upon them censure 
from the community, and yet, in the secret and almost imconscious 
dissemination of demoralizing principles, may be doing a work far 
more destructive of the pviblic good than if they had committed a 
robbery. 

We always feel pain when we hear a young man speak hghtly 
of home, and talk carelessly, or it may be with sportive ridicule, 
of the "old man," and the "old woman," as if they were of but 
little consequence. "We mark it as a bad indication, and feel that 
the feet of that young man are treading upon dangerous ground. 
His home education may not have been of the best kind, nor may 
home influences have reached his higher and better feehngs ; but he 
is at least old enough now to understand the causes, and to seek 
rather to bring into his home all that it needs to render it more at- 
tractive, than to estrange himself from it, and expose its defects. 

Instances of this kind are not of very frequent occurrence. 
Home has its charms for nearly all, and the very name comes with 
a blessing to the spirit. This, however, is more the case with those 
who have been separated from it, than it is with those who yet re- 
main in the old homestead, with parents, brothers, and sisters as 
their friends and companions. 

The earnest love of home, felt by nearly all who have been 
compelled to leave that pleasant place, is a feehng that should 
be tenderly cherished, and this love should be kept alive 
by associations that have in them as perfect a resemblance of 



104 LEISUEE HOUES., 



home as it is possible to obtain. It is for this reason that it is 
bad for a young man to board in a large hotel, where there is noth- 
ing in which there is even an image of the home circle. Each has 
his separate chamber ; but that is not home ; aU meet together at 
the common table ; but there is no home feeling there, with its many 
sweet reciprocations. The meal completed, aU separate, each to- his 
individual pursuit or pleasure. There is a parlor, it is true ; but 
there are no family gatherings there. One and another sit there, 
as inclination prompts; but each sits alone, busy with his own 
thoughts. All tliis is a poor substitute for home. And yet it offers 
its attractions to some. A young man in a hotel has more freedom 
than in a family or private boarding house. He comes in and 
goes out unobserved; there is no one to say to him, "why?" or 
"wherefore?" But this is a dangerous freedom, and one which no 
young man should desire. 

But mere negative evils, so to speak, are not the worst 
that beset a young man who unwisely chooses a public hotel as a 
place of boarding. He is much more exposed to temptations there 
than in a private boarding house or at home. Men of hcentious 
habits, in most cases, select hotels as boarding places ; and such 
rarely scruple to offer to the ardent minds of young men, with 
whom they happen to faU in company, those allurements that are 
most likely to lead them away from virtue. And, besides this, there 
being no evening home circle in a hotel, a young man who is not 
engaged earnestly in some pursuit that occupies his hours of leisure 
from business, has nothing to keep him there, but is forced to seek 
for something to interest his mind elsewhere, and is, in consequence, 
more open to temptation. 

Home is man's true place. Every man should have a home. 
Here his first duties he, and here he finds the strength by which he 
is able successfully to combat in hfe's temptations. Happy is that 
young man who is stUl blessed with a home — who has his mother's 
counsel and the pure love of sisters to strengthen and cheer him 
amid life's opening combats. 



KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE. 105 



Knee-Deep in Juna 

I. 

Tell you what I like the best — 

'Long about knee-deep in June, 
'Bout the time strawberries melts 
On the vine — some afternoon 

Like to jes' git out and rest, 

And not work at nothin' else ! 

n. 

Orchard's where I'd ruther be — 
Needn't fence it in ferme! — 

Jes' the whole sky overhead, 

And the whole airth underneath— 
Sorto' so's a man can breathe 

Like he ort, aud kindo' has 
Elbow-room to keerlessly 

Sprawl out len'tnways on the grass 

Where the shndders thick and soft 
As the kivvers on the bed 

Mother fixes in the loft 
Alius, when they's company ! 

III. 
Jes' a sorto" lazein' there — 

S'lazy 'at you peek and peer, 
Through the wavin' leaves above, 
Like a feller 'ats in love 
And don't know it, ner don't k^erl 
Ever' thing you hear and see 

Got gome sorto' interest — 



106 LEISURE HOUES. 



Maybe find a bluebird's nest 
Tucked up there conveenently 
Fer the boy 'ats apt to be 
Up some other apple-tree! 
Wateh the swallers skootin' past 
'Bout as pert as you could ast; 

Er the Bobwhite raise and whiz 
Where some other's whistle is. 



Ketch a shadder down below, 

And look up to find the crow 

Er a hawk away up there, 

'Pearantly froze in the air! 

Hear the old hen squawk, and squat 
Over every chick she's got, 

Suddunt-like ! — And she knows where 
That-air hawk is, well as you ! — 
You jes' bet yer life she do ! — 
Eyes a-glitterin' like glass, 
Waitin' till he makes a pass! 



Pee- wees' singin', to express 
My opinion's second class, 
Yit you'll hear 'em more er less; 

Sapsucks gittin' down to biz, 
Weedin' out the the lonesomeness; 

Mr. Bluejay, full o' sass, 

In them base- ball clothes o' his 
Sportin' 'round the orchard jes' 
Like he owned the premises I 

Sun out in the fields kin sizz. 
But flat on yer back, I guess, 

In the shade's vvhere glory is ! 



KNEE-DEEP IN JUNE. 107 



That's jes' what I'd like to do 
Stiddy fer a year er two ! 

VI. 

Plague ! ef they aint sompin' in 
Work 'at kindo' goes ag'm 

My convictions! — long about 
Here in June especially! — 
Under some old apple tree, 

Jes' a-restin' through and through, 
I could git along without 
Nothin' else at all to do 
Only jes' a-wishin' 50U 
Was a-gittin' there like me, 
And June was eternitv! 



Lay out there and try to see 
Jes' how lazy you kin he! — 

Tumble round and souse yer head 
In the clover- bloom, er pull 

Yer straw hat acrost yer eyes. 
And peek through it at the skies, 
Thiukin' of old chums 'ats dead 
Maybe, smilin' back at you 
In betwixt the beautiful 
Clouds 0' gold and white and blue! — 
Month a man kin railly love — 
June, yon know, I'm talkin' of ! 

vni. 
March aint never nothin' new! — 
Aprile's altogether too 

Brash fer me ! and May- - I jes' 
'Bominateits promise?, — 



108 



LEISUEE HOURS. 



Little hints o' sunshine and 
Green around the timber land — 
A few blossoms, and a few 
Chip- birds, and a sprout er two — 
Drap asleep, and turns in 
'Fore daylight and snows agin! 
But when June comes — Clear my throat 

With wild honey! Bench my hair 
In the dew ! and hold my coat ! 

Whoop out loud! and throw my hat!- 
Juue wants me, and I'm to spare! 
Spread them shadders anywhere, 
I'll git down and waller there, 
And obleeged to you at that! 




HOW CURIOUS IT IS. 109 



Ho-w^ Curious It Is. 

When the life of Daniel Webster — that grand drama — was 
about drawing to a close, he is represented to have said, "Life — 
Life — how curious it is!" The word curious was deemed a strange 
one, but it expressed the very thing. How curious hfe is, from the 
cradle to the grave ! The forming mind of childhood, busy with . 
the present, and unable to guess the secret of its own existence, is 
curious. The hopes of youth are curious, reaching forward into 
the fixture, and building castles in the perspective for those who 
entertain them, that will fade away in the sunlight of an older exjjc- 
rience. How curious is the first dawning of love; when the young 
heart surrenders itself to its dreams of bhss, illumined with moon- 
shine! How curious it is, when marriage crowns the wishes, to 
find the cares of hfe but begun, and the path all strewn with anxi- 
eties that romance had depicted as a road of flowers I How curious 
it is, says the young mother, as she spreads upon her own the tiny 
hand of her child, and endeavors to read, in its dim lines, the for- 
tune there hidden! Curious, indeed, would such revealing be. 
How curious is the greed for gain that controls too much the life of 
man, leading him away after strange gods, forgetting aU the object 
and good of hfe in a chase for a phantom light, that ends at last in 
three-fold Egyptian darkness ! How curious is the love of life that 
chngs to the old, and draws them back imploringly to earth, beg- . 
ging for a longer look at time and its frivohties, with eternity and 
aU its joys within their reach! How curious it is, when at length 
the great end draws nigh, — the glazing eye, the struggle, the groan, 
]3roclaiming dissolution, and the still clay — so still! — that lately 
stood by our side in the pride of health and happiness ! How curi- 
ous it is that the reahties of the immortal world should be based 
upon the crumbhng vanities of this, and that the path to infinite 
life should be through the dark shadow of the grave ! How curious 
it is, in its business and its pleasures, its joys and its sorrows, its 



110 LEISURE HOUES. 



hopes and its fears, its temptations and its triumphs; and, as we 
contemplate hfe in all its manifestations, we needs must exclaim, 
"How curious it is!" 



Th.e Puritans. 



The Puritans were men whose minds had derived a peculiar 
character from the daily contemplation of superior beings and 
eternal interests. Not content with acknowledging, in general 
terms, an over-ruling Providence, they habitually ascribed every 
event to the will of the Great Being, for whose power nothing was 
too vast, for whose inspection nothing was too minute. To know 
him, to serve him, to enjoy him, was with them the great end of 
existence. They rejected with contempt the ceremonious homage 
which other sects substituted for the pure worship of the soul. 
Instead of catching occasional glimpses of the Deity through an 
obscuring veil, they aspired to gaze full on the intolerable bright- 
ness, and to commune with him face to face. Hence originated 
their contempt for terrestrial distinctions. The difference between 
the greatest and the meanest of mankind seemed to vanish, when 
compared with the boundless interval which separated the whole 
race from him on whom their own eyes were constantly fixed. 
They recognized no title to superiority but his favor; and, confident 
of that favor, they despised all the accomplishments and all the 
dignities of the world. If they were unacquainted with the works 
of philosophers and poets, they were deeply read in the oracles of 
God. If their names were not found in the registers of heralds, 
they felt assured that they were recorded in the Book of Life. If 
their steps were not accompanied by a splendid train of menials, 
legions of ministering angels had charge over them. Their palaces 
were houses not made with hands ; their diadems crowns of glory which 
should never fade away. On the rich and the eloquent, on nobles and 
priests, they looked down with contempt ; for they esteemed them- 



THE PURITANS. 11' 



selves rich in a more precious treasiire, and eloquent in a morg 
sublime language, nobles by the right of an earlier creation, an^ 
priests by the imposition of a mightier hand. The very meanest 
of them was a being to whose fate a mysterious and terrible im- 
portance belonged, — on whose slightest actions the spirits of light 
and darkness looked mth anxious interest, — who had been destined, 
before heaven and earth were created, to enjoy a felicity which 
should continue when heaven and earth should have passed away. 
Events which short-sighted politicians ascribed to earthly causes 
had been ordained on his accoimt. For his sake empires had risen, 
and flourished, and decayed. For his sake the Almighty had pro- 
claimed his will by the pen of the evangehst and the hai-p of the 
prophet. He had been rescued by no common dehverer from the 
grasp of no common foe. He had been ransomed by the sweat of 
no vulgar agony, by the blood of no earthly sacrifice. It was for 
him that the sun had been darkened, that the rocks had been rent, 
that the dead had arisen, that all nature had shuddered at the 
sufferings of her expiring God. 

Thus the Puritan was made up of two different men : the one 
all self-abasement, penitence, gratitude, passion; the other proud, 
calm, inflexible, sagacious. He prostrated himself in the dust be- 
fore his Maker; but he set his foot on the neck of his king. In hi? 
devotional retirement, he prayed with convulsions, and groans, 
and tears. He was half maddened by glorious or terrible illusions. 
He heard the lyres of angels or the tempting whispers of fiends. 
He caught a gleam of the Beatific Vision, or woke screaming from 
dreams of everlasting fire. Like Vane, he thought himself intrusted 
with the scepter of the millennial year. Like Fleetwood, he cried 
in the bitterness of his soul that God had hid his face from him. 
But when he took his seat in the council, or girt on his sword foi 
war, these tempestuous workings of the soul had left no perceptible 
trace behind them. People Avho saw nothing of the godly but their 
uncouth visages, and heard nothing from them but their groans and 
their whining hymns, might laugh at them. But those had little 
reason to laugh who encountered them in the haU of debate or on the 



114 LEISURE HOURS. 



field of battle. These fanatics brought to civil and military affairs 
a coolness of judgment and an immutability of purpose which some 
writers have thought inconsistent with their religious zeal, but 
which were, in fact, the necessary effect of it. The intensity of 
their feeling on one subject made them tranquil on the other. One 
overpowering sentiment had subjected to itself pity and hatred, 
ambition and fear. Death had lost its terrors, and pleasure its 
charms. They had their smiles and their tears, their raptures and 
their sorrows, but not for the things of this world. Enthusiasm had 
made them stoics, had cleared their minds from every vulgar passion 
and prejudice, and raised them above the influence of danger and 
of corruption. It sometimes might lead them to pursue unwise 
ends, but never to choose unwise means. 



Changes of Matter. 

The universe is everywhere in motion. The atmosphere is 
agitated by winds ; the world of waters is in perpetual circulation ; 
plants and animals spring from the earth and air and return to 
them again ; aU substances around us are undergoing slow trans- 
formation ; the stony record of the strata are but histories of past 
revolutions; our ponderous earth shoots swiftly along its orbit, 
while the mighty sun, with all its attendant planets, is sweeping on 
forever through shoreless space. Nothmg around or within us is 
absolutely at rest. 



CHILDREN AND THEIR EDUCATION. 315 



Children and Their Education. 

The following we take from Horace Mann's lecture, entitled — "What God Does, 
and What He Leaves for Man to do, in the Work of Education." It is one of the finest 
productions in print, and should be read with careful thought. 

The entire helplessness of children, for a long period after 
birth, is another circumstance not within onr control, and one de- 
serving of great moral consideration. In one respect, children may 
be said to possess their greatest power, at this, the feeblest period 
of their existence ; — a power which, — however j)aradoxical it may 
seem, — originates in helplessness, and therefore diminishes just in 
proportion as they gain strength. It was most beautifully said by 
Dr. Thomas Brown, that after a child has grown to manhood, "he 
cannot, even then, by the most imperious order, which he addresses 
to the most obsequious slave, exercise an authority more command- 
ing than that which, in the very first hours of his life, when a few 
indistinct cries and tears were his only language, he exercised irre- 
sistibly over hearts, of the very existence of which he was igno- 
rant." It may be added that," under no terror of a despot's rage; 
under no bribe of honors, or of wealth; under no fear of torture, 
or of death, have greater struggles been made, or greater sacrifices 
endured, than for those helpless creatures, who, for all purposes of 
immediate availabihty, are so utterly wortliless. All, unless it be 
the lowest savages, fly to the succor, and melt at the sufl'erings of 
infancy. God has so adapted their unconscious j)leadings to our 
uncontrollable impulse, that they, in their weakness, have the j)re- 
rogative of command, and we, in our strength, the instinct of 
obedience. It was the highest wisdom, then, not to intrust the fate 
of infancy to any volitions or notions of expediency, on our part; 
but, at once, by a sovereign law of the constitution, to make our 
knowledge and power submissive to their inarticulate commands. 

In proportion as this power of helplessness wanes, tlie child 
begins to excite our interest and sympathy, by a thousand persona] 



116 LEISURE HOURS. 



attractions and forms of loveliness. The sweetness of lips that 
never told a lie; the smile that celebrates the first-born emotions o^ 
love ; the intense gaze at bright colors and striking forms, gather- 
ing together the elements from whose full splendor auid gorgeous- 
ness Eaphael painted and Homer wrote; the plastic imagination, 
fusing the solid substances of the earth, to be re-cast into shapes 
of beauty; — what EothschUd, what Croesus has wealth that can 
purchase these ! 

How cheap and how beautiful, too, are the joys of childhood! 
Paley, in speaking of the evidences of the goodness of G-od, says 
there is always some "bright spot in the prospect;" — some "single 
example," "by which each man finds himself more convinced than 
by all others put together. I seem, for my own part," he adds, "to 
see the benevolence of th*J Deity more clearly in the pleasure of 
young children, than r*any things in the world. The pleasures of 
grown persons may be reckoned partly of their own procuring, 
especially if there has been any industry, or contrivance, or pursuit 
to come at them; or, if they are founded, like music, painting, etc., 
upon any qualifications of their own acquiring. But the pleasures 
of a healthy infant are so manifestly provided for it by another, 
and the benevolence of the provisiion is so unquestionable, that 
every child I see at its sport, affords to my mind a kind of sensi- 
ble evidence of the finger of God, and of the disposition whicb 
directs it." At the age of two or three years, before a child has 
ever seen a jest-book, whence comes his glad and gladdening laugh- 
ter, — at once costless and priceless? Whence comes that flow of 
joy, that gurgles and gushes up from his heart, like water flung 
from a spouting spring? That bright-haired boy, how came he as 
full of music and poetry as a singing-book? Who imprisoned t. 
aancing- school in each of his toes, which sends him from the earth 
with bounding and rebounded step? What an ^olian harp the 
wind finds in him ! Nor music alone does it awaken in his bosom ; 
for, let but its feathery touch play upon his locks, or fan his cheeky 
and gravitation lets go of him, — he floats and sails away, as though 
his body were a feather and his soul the zephyr that played with it. 



CHILDREN" AND THEIR EDUCATION. 117 

Indeed, half his discords come, because the winds, the buds, the 
flowers, the Ught, — -so many fingers of the hand of nature, — are 
all striving to play different tunes upon him at the same time. 
These dehghts are born of the exquisite workmanship of the Crea- 
tor, before the ignorance and wickedness of men have had time to 
mar it ; — and 'they flow out spontaneously and unconsciously, like a 
bird's song, or a flower's beauty. 

Even to those who have no children of their own, — unless they 
are, as the apostle expresses it, "without natural affection," — even to 
those, the wonderful growth of a child in knowledge, in power, in 
affection, makes all other wonders tame. Who ever saw a wretch 
so heathenish, so dead, that the merry song or shout of a group of 
gleeful children did not galvanize the misanthrope into an excla- 
mation of joy? Wlaat orator or poet has eloquence that enters the 
soul with such quick and subtle electricity, as a child's tear of pity 
^or suffering, or his frown of indignation at wrong? A chUd is so 
lauch more than a miracle that its growth and future blessedness 
re the only things worth working miracles for. God did not make 
iiAe child for the sake of the earth, nor for the sake of the sun, as 
a footstool and a, lamp, to sustain his steps and to enhghten his path, 
during a few only of the earhest years of his immortal existence. 

You perceive, my friends, that in speaking of the lovehness of 
children, and their power to captivate and subdue all hearts to a 
willing bondage, I have used none but masculine pronouns, — refer- 
ring only to the stronger and hardier sex ; for by what glow and 
melody of speech can I sketch the vision of a young and beautiful 
daughter, with aU her bewildering enchantments? By what cun- 
ning art can the coarse material of words be refined and subtihzed 
into color and motion and music, till they shall paint the bloom 
of health, "celestial, rosy red;" till they shall trace those motions 
that have the grace and the freedom of flame, and echo the sweet 
and affectionate tones of a spirit yet warm from the hand that 
created it? What less than a divine power could have strung the 
living chords of her voice to pour out unbidden and exulting har- 
monies? What fount of sacred flame kindles and feeds the light 



118 LEISURE HOURS., 



that gleams from the pure depths of her eye, and flushes her cheek 
with the hues of a perpetual morning, and shoots auroras from her 
beaming forehead? 0, profane not this last miracle of heavenly- 
workmanship with sight or sound of earthly impurity ! Keep vestal 
vigils around her inborn m^odesty; and let the quickest lightnings 
blast her tempter. She is Nature's mosaic of charms. Looked 
upon as we look uj)on an object in natural hiitory, — upon a gazelle 
or a hyacinth, — she is a magnet to draw pain out of a wounded 
breast. While we gaze upon her, and press her in ecstacy to o.ir 
bosom, we almost tremble, lest suddenly she should unfurl a wing 
and soar to some better world. 

But, my friend, with what emotions ought we "k) tremble, when 
our thoughts pass from the present to the future, — when we ponder 
on the possibilities of evil as well as of good, which now, all uncon- 
sciously to herself, lie hidden in her spirit's coming history, — now 
hidden, but to be revealed soon as her tiny form shall have ex- 
panded to the stature, and her spirit to the power, of womanhood? 
When we reflect, on the one hand, that this object, almost of our 
idolatry, may go through life solacing distress, ministering to want, 
redeeming from guilt, making vice mourn the blessedness it has 
lost because it was not virtue; and, as she walks, holy and immac- 
ulate before men, some aerial anthem shall seem to be forever 
hymning peaceful benedictions around her; or, on the other hand, 
that, from the dark fountains of a corrupted heart, she shall send 
forth a secret, subtle poison, compared -svith which all earthly ven- 
oms are healthful; — when we reflect that, so soon, she may become 
one or the other of all this, the pen falls, the tongue falters and 
fails, while the hopeful, fearful heart rushes from thanksgiving 
to prayer and from prayer to thanksgiving. 

But the most striking and wonderful provision which is made, 
in the accustomed course of nature and providence, for the welfare 
of children, remains to be mentioned. 

Eeflect, for a moment, my friends, how it has come to pass, 
that the successive generations of children, from Adam to our- 
selves, — each one of which was wholly incapable of providing foi 



CHILDEEN AND THEIR EDUCATION". 119 

itself for a single day — how has it come to pass, that these suc- 
cessive generations have been regularly sustained and continued to 
the present day, without intermission or f ailiu'e ? The Creator did 
not leave these ever-returning exigencies without adequate provision ; 
— for how imiversal and how strong is the love of offspring in the 
parental breast! This love is the grand resource, — the complement 
of all other forces. We are accustomed to call the right of self- 
preservation the first law of nature ; yet how this love of offspring 
overrules and spurns it. To rescue her child, the mother breaks 
through a wall of fire, or plunges into the fathomless flood; — or, if 
it must be consumed in the flames, or he down in the deep, she 
clasps it to her bosom and perishes with it. This maternal impulse 
does not so much subjugate self, as forget that there is auy such 
thing as self; and were the mother possessed of a thousand 
lives, for the welfare of her offspring she would squander 
them all. Mourning, disconsolate mothers, ])ewaihng lost chil- 
dren! Behold the vast procession, which reaches from the ear- 
liest periods of the race to those who now stand bending and weep- 
ing over the diminutive graves which swallow up their hopes ; and 
what a mighty attestation do they give to the strength of that 
instinct which God has imjDlanted in the maternal breast. Nor is 
it in the human race only that this love of offsj)ring bears sway. 
All the higher orders of animated nature are subjected to its con- 
trol. It inspires the most timid races of the brute creation with 
boldness, and melts the most ferocious of them into love. To ex- 
press its strength and watchfulness, the hare is said to sleep with 
ever-open eye on the form where her young repose ; and the pehcan 
to tear open her breast with her own beak, and pour out her hfe- 
blood to feed her nestlings. The famishing eagle grasps her prey 
in her talons and carries it to her lofty nest; and though she 
screams with hunger, yet she will not taste it until her young are 
satisfied ; and the gaunt honess bears the spoils of the forest to her 
cavern, nor quenches the fire of her own parched hps until her 
whelps have feasted. And thus, from the parent stock, — from the 
Adam and Eve, whether of animals or of men, who came into life 



120 LEISUEE HOtJES. 



full-formed fi-om the hand of their Creator, — down through all suc- 
cessive generations, to the present dwellers upon earth, has this 
invisible but mighty instinct of the parent's heart brooded and 
held its zealous watch over their young, nurturing their weakness 
and instracting their ignorance, imtil the day of their maturity, 
when it became their turn to re-affinn this great law of nature 
toward their offspring. 

This, my friend, is not sentimentahty. It is the contempla- 
tion of one of the divinest features in the economy of Providence. 
It was for the wisest ends that the Creator ordained, that as the 
cffspiing of each "after its Mnd" should be brought into Hfe, — 
then, in that self-same hour, without vohtion or forethought on 
their part, — there should flame up in the breast of the parent, as 
from the innermost recesses of nature, a new and overmastering 
impulse, — an impulse which enters the soul like a strong invader, 
conc[uering, revolutionizing, transforming old pains into pleasures 
and old pleasures into pains, until its great mission should be accom- 
phshed. On this link the very existence of the races was sus- 
pended. Hence Divine foreknowledge made it strong enough to 
sustain them all; — ^for, in vain would the fountain of life have been 
opened in the maternal Ureast, if a deeper fountain of love had not 
been opened in her heart. 

"Would you more adequately conceive what an insupportable 
wretchedness and torment the rearing of childi-en would be, if, 
instead of being rendered dehghtful by these endearments of pa- 
rental love, it had been merely commanded by law, and enforced by 
pains and penalties, — would you, I say, more fully conceive this 
difference, — contrast the feehngs of a slave-breeder (a wretch 
abhorred by God and man), — contrast, I say, the feelings of a 
slave-breeder who raises children for the market, with the 
feelings of the slave-mother, in whose person this sacred law 
of parental love is outraged. If one of these doomed 
children, from what cause soever, becomes puny and sickly, 
and gives good promise of defeating the cupidity that called it 
into life, with what bitter emotions does the master behold 



CSlLDEElsr AND THEIR EDtTCATiaN. 121 

it! He thinks of investments sunk, of unmerchantable stock on 
hand, of the profit and loss account; and perhaps he is secretly 
meditating schemes for preventing further expenditures by bringing 
the hopeless concern to a violent close. But what an inexpressible 
joy does the abused mother find in watching over and caressing it, 
and cheating the hostile hours ; — and (for such is the impartiality 
of nature) if she can beguile it of one note of gladness from its 
sorrow-stricken frame, her dusky bosom thrills with as keen a rapt- 
ure as ever dilated the breast of a royal mother, when, beneath a 
canopy and within curtains of silk and gold, she nursed the heir of 
a hundred kings. 

In civilized and Christianized man, this natural instinct is ex- 
alted into a holy sentiment. At first, it is true, there springs up 
this bhnd passion of parental love, yearning for the good of the 
child, dehghted by its pleasures, tortured by its pains. But this 
vehement impulse, strong as it is, is not left to do its work alone. 
It summons and supplicates all the nobler faculties of the soul to 
become its counselors and allies. It invokes the aid of conscience, 
and conscience urges to do aU and suffer ah, for the child's welfare. 
For every default, conscience expostulates, rebukes, mourns, threat- 
ens, chastises. That is selfishness, and not conscience, in the 
parent, which says to the child, "You owe your being and your 
capacities to me." Conscience makes the parent say, "I owe my 
being and my capacities to you. It is I who have struck out a 
spark which is to bum with celestial effulgence, or glare with bale- 
ful fires. It is I, who have worked out of nothingness, unknown 
and incalculable capacities of happiness and of misery; and all 
that can be done by mortal means is mine to do." 

Nor does this love of offspring stop with conscience. It enhsts, 
in its behalf, the general feeling of benevolence, — benevolence, that 
godlike sentiment which rejoices in the joys and suffers in the suf- 
ferings of others. The soul of the truly benevolent man does not 
seem to reside much in its own body. Its life, to a great extent, is 
the mere reflex of the hves of others. It migrates into their 
bodies, and, identifying its existence with their existence, finds its 



122" LEISURE HOUES. 



own happiness in increasing and prolonging their pleasures, in 
extinguishing or solacing their pains. And of all places into which 
the whole heart of benevolence ever migrates, it is in the child 
where it finds the readiest welcome, and where it loves best to pro- 
long its residence. 

So the voice of another sentiment, — a sentiment whose com- 
mands are more authoritative than those of any other which ever 
startles the slumbering faculties from their guilty repose, — I mean 
the religious sentiment, the sense of duty to Crod,- — this, too, comes 
in aid of the parental affection; and it appeals to the whole nature. 
in language awful as that which made the camp of the Israelites 
tremble, at the foot of Sinai. The sense of duty to God compele 
the parent to contemplate the child in his raoral and religious rela- 
tions. It says, "However different you may now be from your 
child, — you strong, and he weak; you learned, and he ignorant; 
your mind capacious of the mighty events of the past and the 
future, and he ahke ignorant of yesterday and to-morrow, — yet in 
a few short years, all this difference will be lost, and one of the 
greatest remaining differences between yourself and him will be 
that which your own conduct toward him shall have caused or per- 
mitted. If, then, God is Truth, if God is Love, teach the child 
above all tilings to seek for Truth, and to abound in Love." 

So much, then, my friends, is done in the common and esuab- 
lished course of nature, for the welfare of our children. Nature 
supplies a perennial force, unexhausted, inexhaustible, reappearing 
whenever and wherever the parental relation exists. We, then, 
who are engaged in the sacred cause of education, are entitled to 
look upon aU parents as having given hostages to our cause; and, 
just as soon as we can make them see the true relation in which 
they and their children stand to this cause, they will become advo- 
cates for its advancement, more ardent and devoted than ourselves. 
We hold every parent by a bond more strong and faithful than 
promises or oaths, — by a Heaven-established relationship, which 
no power on earth can dissolve. Would parents furnish us with a 
record of their secret consciousness, how large a portion of those 



CHILDREN AND THEIR EDUCATION. 123 

soleran thoughts and emotions, which throng the mind in tne Sou- 
tude of the night watches and fill up their hours of anxious con- 
templation, would be found to relate to the welfare of their ofl:"spring. 
Doubtless the main part of their most precious joys come from the 
present or prospective well-being of their children ; — and oh ! how 
often would they account all gold as dross, and fame as vanity, and 
life as nothing, could they bring back the look of the cradle's inno- 
cence upon the coffined reprobate ! 

With some parents, of course, these pleasures and pains con- 
stitute a far greater share of the good or ill of life than with oth- 
ers; — and mth mothers generally far more than mth fathers. We 
have the evidence of this superior attachment of the mother, in 
those supernatural energies which she will put forth to rescue her 
child from danger; we know it by the vigils and fasting she will 
endure to save it from the pangs of sickness, or to ward off the 
shafts of death; when, amid all the allurements of the world, her 
eye is fastened and her heart dwells upon one spot in it ; we know 
it by her agonies, Avhen, at last, she consigns her child to an early 
grave; we know it by the tear in her eye, when, after the lapse 
of years, some stranger repeats, by chance, its beloved name; 
and we know it by the crash and ruin of the intellect sometimes 
produced by the blow of bereavement; — all these are signatures 
written by the finger of God upon human nature itself, by which 
we know that parents are constituted and predestined to be the 
friends of education. They will, they must, be its friends, as soon 
as increasing intelligence shall have demonstrated to them the indis- 
soluble relation which exists between Education and Happiness. 

I have now spoken, my friends, of what is done for us, in the 
accustomed course of nature and providence, as it regards the well- 
being of our children. But here I come to the point of divergence. 
Here I must speak of our part of the work ; of those duties which 
the Creator has devolved upon ourselves. Here, therefore, it 
becomes my duty to expose the greatest of all mistakes, committed 
in regard to the greatest of all subjects, and followed by proportion- 
ate calamities. 



124 LEISUEE HOUns. 



Two grand qualifications are equally necessary in the education 
of children, — Love and Knowledge. Without love, every .child 
would be regarded as a nuisance, and cast away as soon as born. 
Without knowledge, love will ruin every child. Nature supplies 
the love, but she does not supply the knowledge. The love is 
spontaneous; the knowledge is to be acquired by study and toil, by 
the most attentive observation and the profoundest reflection. 
Here, then, hes the fatal error: — parents rest contented with the 
feeling of love; they do not devote themselves to the acquisition of 
that knowledge which is necessary to guide it. Year after year, 
thousands and tens of thousands indulge the delightful sentiment, 
but never spend an hour in studying the conditions which are indis- 
pensable to its gratification. 

In regard to the child's physical condition, — its growth and 
health and length of life — these depend, in no inconsiderable 
degree, on the health and self -treatment of the mother before its 
birth. After birth, they depend nut only on the vitahty and tem- 
perature of the air it breathes, on dress and diet and exercise, but 
on certain proportions and relations which these objects bear to 
each other. Now the tenderest parental love, — a love which burns, 
like incense upon an altar, for an idolized child, for a quarter 
of a century, or for half a century — will never teach the mother 
that there are different ingredients in the air we breathe, that one 
of them sustains life, that another of them destroys life, that 
every breath we draw changes the life-sustaining element into the 
life-destroying one; and therefore that the air which is to be 
respired must be perpetually renewed. Love will never instruct 
the mother what materials or textures of clothing have the proper 
conducting or non-conducting qualities for different climates, or 
for different seasons of the year. Love is no chemist or physiolo- 
gist, and therefore will never impart to the mother any knowledge 
of the chemical or vital qualities of different kinds of food, of the 
nature or functions of the digestive organs, of the susceptibilities 
of the nervous system, nor, indeed, of any other of the various 
functions on which health and life depend. Hence, the most affec- 



CHILDREN AND THEIR EDUCATION. 125 

tionate but ignorant mother, during the eold nights of Winter, mil 
visit the closet-hke bed-chamber of her darhng, calk up every crev- 
ice, cranny, smother him with as many integuments as encase an 
Egyptian mummy, close the door of his apartment, and thus inflict 
upon him a consumption, — born of love. Or she will wrap nice 
comforters about his neck, until, in some glow of perspiration, he 
flings them off, and dies of the croup. Or she will consult the in- 
finite desires of a child's appetite, instead of the finite powers of 
his stomach, and thus pamper him until he languishes into a life of 
suffering and imbecility, or becomes stupefied and besotted by one 
of sensual indulgence. 

A mother has a first-bom child, whom she dotes upon to dis- 
traction, but, through some fatal error in its management, occa- 
sioned by her ignorance, it dies in the first, beautiful, budding 
hour of childhood — nipped like the sweet blossoms of Spring by an 
untimely frost. Another is committed to her charge, and in her 
secret heart she says, "I "will love this better than the first." But 
it is not better love that the child needs ; it is more knowledge. 

It is the vast field of ignorance pertaining to these subjects, in 
which quackery thrives and fattens. No one who knows anything 
of the organs and functions of the human system, and of the prop- 
erties of those objects in nature to which that system is related, 
can hear a quack descant upon the miraculous virtues of his nos- 
trums, or can read his advertisements in the newspapers — where- 
in, fraudulently toward man, and impiously toward God, he 
promises to sell an "Elixir of Life," or "The Balm of Immortality," 
or "Eesurrection Pills"— without contempt for his ignorance, or 
detestation of his guilt. Could the quack administer his nostrums 
to the great enemy, death, then, indeed, we might expect to live 

■j-QvpTTPV ^ ^ ^ y^ ^ ^ ^ 

If the vehement, but bhnd love of offspring, which comes by 
nature, is not enlightened and guided by knowledge and study and 
reflection, it is sure to defeat its own desires. Hence, the frequency 
and the significance of such expressions as are used by plain, rus- 
tic people, of strong common sense: "There were too many pea- 



126 LEISURE HOURS. 



cocks where that boy was brought up;" or, ".The silly girl is not to 
blame, for she was dolled up, from a doll in the cradle to a doll in 
the parlor." All children have fooUsh desires, freaks, caprices, 
appetites, which they have no power or skill to gratify; but the 
foohsh parent supphes all the needed skill, time, money, to gratify 
them ; and thus the greater talent and resource of the parent foster 
the propensities of the child into excess and predominance. The 
■parental love, which was designed by Heaven to be the guardian 
angel of the child, is thus transformed into a cruel minister of evil. 
Think, my friends, for one moment, of the marvelous nature 
with which we have been endowed, — of its manifold and diverse 
capacities, and of their attributes of infinite expansion and dura- 
tion. Then cast a rapid glance over this magnificent temple of the 
universe into which we have been brought. The same Being cre- 
ated both by His omnipotence, and by His wisdom. He has 
adapted the dwelling-place to the dweller. The exhaustless variety 
of natural objects by which we are surrounded; the relations of the 
family, of society, and of the race; the adorable perfections of the 
Divine mind, — these are means for the development, and spheres 
for the activity, and objects for the aspiration of the immortal soul. 
For the sustentation of our physical natures God has created the 
teeming earth, and tenanted the field and the forest, the ocean and 
the air, with innumerable forms of life; and He has said to us, 
"have dominion" over them. For the education of the perceptive 
intellect there have been provided the countless multitude and 
diversity of substances, forms, colors, motions, — from a drop of 
water to the ocean ; from the tiny crystal that sparkles upon the 
shore, to the sun that blazes in the heavens, and the sun-strown 
firmanent. For the education of the reflecting intellect we have 
the infinite relations of discovered and undiscovered sciences, — the 
encyclopaedias of matter and of spirit, of which all the encyclopasdias 
of man, as yet extant, are but the alphabet. We have domestic sym- 
pathies looking backward, around, and forward; and answering 
to these, are the ties of filial, conjugal, and parental relations. 
Through our inborn sense of melody and harmony, all joyful and 



CHILDREN AND THEIE EDUCATION. 127 

plaintive emotions flow out into spontaneous music; and, not 
friends and kindred only, but even dead nature echoes back our 
sorrows and our joys. To give a costless delight to our sense of 
beauty, we have the variegated landscape, the rainbow, the ever- 
renewing beauty of the moon, the glories of the rising and the set- 
ting sun, and the ineffable purity and splendor of that celestial 
vision when the northern and the southern auroras shoot up from 
the horizon, and overspread the vast concave with their many-col- 
ored flame, as though it were a reflection caught from the waving 
Danner of angels, when the host of heaven rejoices over some sin- 
ner that has repented. And finally, for the amplest development, 
for the eternal progress of those attributes that are proper to man, 
— ^for conscience, for the love of truth, for that highest of all emo- 
tions, the love and adoration of our Creator, — God, in his unsearch- 
able riches, has made full provision. And here, on the one hand, 
is the subject of education, — the child, with its manifold and won- 
derful powers — and, on the other hand, this height and depth, 
and boundlessness of natural and of spiritual instrumentahties t'^ 
build up the nature of that child into a capacity for the intellectual 
oomprehension of the universe, and into a spiritual similitude to 
its Author. And who are they that lay their rash hands upon this 
holy work? Where or when have they learned, or sought to learn, 
to look at the unfolding powers of the child's soul, and to see what 
it requires, and then to run their eye and hand over this universe 
of material and of moral agencies, and to select and apply what- 
ever is needed, at the time needed, and in the measure needed? 
Surely, in no other department of life is knowledge so indispen- 
sable ; surely, in no other is it so little sought for. In no other 
naA^gation is there such danger of wreck ; in no other is there such 
blind pilotage. * * ******** ^ 
You all recollect, my friends, that memorable fire which befell 
the city of New York, in the year 1835. It took place in the heart of 
that great emporium, — -a spot where merchants whose wealth was 
hke princes' had gathered their treasures. In but few places or 
the surface of the globe was there accumulated such a mass oi 



128 LEISURE HOUES. 



riches. Prom each continent and from all the islands of the sea, 
ships had brought thither their tributary offerings, until it seemed 
like a magazine of the nations,— the coffer of the world's wealth. 
In the midst of these hoards, the fire broke out. It raged between 
two and three days. Above, the dome of the sky was filled with 
appalling blackness ; below, the flames were of an unapproachable 
intensity of light and heat; and such were the inclemency of the 
season and the raging of the elements, that all human power and 
human art seemed as vanity and nothing. Yet, situated in the 
very midst of that conflagration, there was one building, upon 
which the storm of fire beat in vain. All around, from elevated 
points in the distance, from steeples and the roofs of houses, thou- 
sands of the trembhng inhabitants gazed upon the awful scene; 
and thought — as well they might — that it was one of universal 
and undistinguishing havoc. But, as some swift cross-wind fur- 
rowed athwart that sea of flame, or a broad blast beat down its 
aspiring crests, there, safe amidst ruin, erect amongst the falliiig 
walls, was seen that single edifice. And when, at last, the ravage 
ceased, and men again walked those streets in sorrow, which so 
lately they had walked in pride, there stood that solitary edifice, 
unharmed amid surrounding desolation; from the foundation to 
the cope-stone, unscathed; and over the treasure which had been 
confided to its keeping, the smell of fire had not passed. There it 
stood, like an honest man in the streets of Sodom. Now, why was 
this? It was constructed from the same materials, of brick and 
mortar, of iron and slate, with the thousands around it whose 
substance was now rubbish and their contents ashes. Now, why 
was this? It ivas built by a workman. It was built by a workman. 
The man who erected that surviving, victorious structure knew the 
nature of the materials he used; he knew the element of fire; he 
Anew the power of combustion. Fidelity seconded his knowledge. 
He did not put in stucco for granite, nor touch- wood foi- iron. 
He was not satisfied with outside ornaments, with finical cornices 
and gingerbread work; but deep in all its hidden foundations — in 
the interior of its waUs, and in aU its secret joints — where no 



CHILDEEN AND THEIB EDUCATION. 129 

human eye should ever see the compact masonry — he consoHdated, 
and cemented, and closed it in, until it became impregnable to fire 
— insoluble in that volcano. And thus, my hearers, must parents 
become workmen m the education of their children. They must 
Kuow that, from the very nature and constitution of things, a lofty 
and enduring character cannot be formed by ignorance and chance. 
They must know that no skill or power of man can ever lay the 
imperishable foundations of virtue, by using the low motives of 
fear, and the pride of superiority, and the love of worldly applause 
or of worldly wealth, any more than they can rear a material edifice, 
storm-proof and fire-proof, from bamboo and cane-brake ! 

Until, then, this subject of education is far more studied and 
far better understood than it has ever yet been, there can be no 
security for the formation of pure and noble minds ; and though 
the child that is born to-day may turn out an Abel, yet we have no 
assurance that he wiU not be a Cain. Until parents will learn to 
train up children in the way they should go — until they will learn 
what that way is — the paths that lead down to the realms of de- 
struction must continue to be thronged; the doting father shall 
feel the pangs of a disobedient and profligate son, and the mother 
shall see the beautiful child whom she folds to her bosom turn to 
a coiling serpent and sting the breast uj)on which it was cherished. 
Until the thousandth and the ten thousandth generation shall have 
passed away the Deity may go on doing his part of the work, but 
unless Ave do our part also, the work will never be done — and until 
it is done, the river of parental tears must continue to flow. Un- 
like Eachael, parents shall weep for their children because they are, 
and not because they are not ; nor shall they be comforted, until they 
wiU learn that God in His infinite wisdom has j^ervaded the uni- 
verse with immutable laws — laws Avhich may be made productive of 
the highest forms of goodness and hapi^iness; and, in His infinite 
mercy, has provided the means by which those laws can be discov- 
ered and obeyed ; but that He has left it to us to learn and to aijply 
them, or to suffer the unutteri:,ble consequences of ignorance. But 
whec the immortal nature of the child shall be brouofht within the 



130 LEISUEE HOUES. 



action of those influences — each at its appointed time — which have 
been graciously prepared for training it up in the way it should go, 
then may we be sure, that God will clothe its spirit in garments of 
ainianthufi, that it may not be corrupted, and of asbestos, that it may 
not be consumed, and that it will be able to walk through the pools 
of earthly pollution, and through the furnace of earthly temptation, 
and come forth white as linen that has been washed by the fuller 
and pure as the golden wedge of Ophir that has been refined in th 
refiner's fire. 



Pictures. 



We don't care whether pictures abound in a house from pride, 
fashion, or taste, so that they be there. If there is insensibility 
in the proprietor, he may be the means of gratifying taste in others, 
or of awakening a taste where it was lying inactive before. It is 
more dehghtful, of course, where good taste prompts their supply; 
then the pleasure of the exhibitor is added to the gazer, be he never 
so humble, and the two reaHze a better brotherhood — not before 
recognized, perhaps — in the broad avenue of natural taste. How 
cheerful the walls of a home look with them ; and, by the rule of 
opposites, how cheerless without them! It is a garden without 
flowers, a family without children. Let an observing man enter a 
house, and ten times in ten he can decide the character of the 
proprietor. If he is a mean man, there wiU be no pictures ; if 
rich and ostentatious, they will be garish and costly, brought from 
over the water, with expensive frames, and mated with mathemat- 
ical exactness; if a man of taste, the quality is observable, and, 
whatever their number or arrangement, regard has evidently been 
had to the beauty of subject and fitness, with just attention to 
light and position. In humble homes, when this taste exists, it 
stiU reveals itself, though cheaply, bnt the quick eye detects it and 

20 



MAXIMS OF GEORGE WASHINGTON. 131 

respects it. We have seen it in a prison, where a judicious placing 
of a wood-cut or a common hthograph has given almost cheerful- 
ness to the stone walls on which it hung. 



Maxims of George "Washington. 

The biographer of George Washington has stated that when 
but thirteen years old, Washington drew up for his future conduct 
a series of maxims which he called "Eules of Civility and Decent 
Behavior in Company." We give these rules, as they are worthy 
of dUigeut study and cannot fail to both interest and profit the 
youth of our land : 

Every action in company ought to be some sign of respect to 
those present. 

In the presence of others sing not to yourself with a humming 
voice, nor drum with your fingers or feet. 

Speak not when others speak, sit not when others stand, and 
walk not when others stop. 

Turn not your back to others, esiDCcially in speaking; jog not 
the table or desk on which another reads or writes ; lean not on 
any one. 

Be no flatterer; neither play with any one that delights not to 
be played with. 

Bead no letters, books, or papers in company; but when there 
is a necessity for doing it you must not leave; come not near the 
books or writings of any one so as to read them unasked; also 
look not nigh when another is writing a letter. 

Let your countenance be pleasant, but in serious matters some- 
what grave. 

Show not yourself glad at the misfortune of another, though 
he were your enemy. 

They that are in dignity or office have in all places precedency; 
but whilst they are young they ought to respect those that are their 



132 LEISUEE HOURS., 



equals in birth or other qualities, though they have no pubhc 
charge. It is good manners to prefer them to whom we speak 
before ourselves, especially if they be above us, with whom in no 
sort we ought to begin. 

Let your discourse with men of business be short and com- 
prehensive. 

In writing or speaking give to every person his due title accord- 
ing to his degree and the custom of the place. 

Strive not with your superiors in argument, but always sub- 
mit your judgment to others with modesty. 

When a man does all he can, though succeeds not well, blame 
not him that did it. 

Being to advise or reprehend any one, consider whether it 
ought to be in public or in private, presently or at some other time, 
also in what terms to do it; and in reproving show no signs of 
choler, but do it with sweetness and mildness. 

Mock not nor jest at anything of importance; break no jests 
that are sharp and biting; and if you deliver anything witty or 
pleasant, abstain from laughing thereat yourself. 

Wherein you reprove another be unblamable yourself, for exam- 
ple is more prevalent than precept. 

Use no reproachful language against any one, neither curses 
nor reviliiigs. 

Be not hasty to believe flying reports to the disparagement of 
any one. 

In your apparel be modest, and endeavor to accommodate nat- 
ure rather than procure admiration. Keep to the fashion of your 
equals, such as are civil and orderly with respect to time and place. 

Play not the peacock, looking everywhere about you to see if 
you be well decked, if your shoes fit well, if your stockings set 
neatly and clothes handsomely. 

Associate yourself with men of good quality if you esteem 
your own reputation, for it is better to be alone than in bad com- 
pany. 

Let your conversation be without malice or envy, for it is a 



MAXIMS OF GEOKGE WASHINGTON. 133 



sign of a tractable and commendable nature; and in all causes of 
passion admit reason to govern. 

Be not immodest in urging your friend to discover a secret. 

Utter not base and frivolous things amongst grown and learned 
men, nor very difficult questions or subjects amongst the ignorant, 
nor things hard to be believed. 

Speak not of doleful things in time of mirth nor at the table; 
speak not of melancholy things, as death and wounds; and if 
others mention them, change, if you can, the discourse. Tell not 
your dreams but to your intimate friends. 

Break not a jest when none take pleasure in mirth. Laugh 
not aloud, nor at all without occasion. Deride no man's misfor- 
tunes, though there seem to be some cause. 

Speak not injurious words, neither in jest nor earnest. Scoff 
at none, although they give occasion. 

Be not forward, but friendly and courteous ; the first to salute, 
hear and answer; and be not pensive when it is time to converse. 

Detract not from others, but neither be excessive in commend- 
ing. 

Go not thither where you know not whether you shall be wel- 
come or not. Give not advice without being asked; and when 
desired, do it briefly. 

If two contend together, take not the part of either uncon- 
strained, and be not obstinate in your opinion ; in things indiffer- 
ent be of the major side. 

Reprehend not the imperfections of others, for that belont^s to 
parents, masters and superiors. 

Gaze not on the marks or blemishes of others, and ask not 
how they came. What you may speak in secret to your friend 
deliver not before others. 

Speak not in an unknown tongue in company, but in your own 
language; and that as those of quahty do, and not as the vulgar. 
Sublime matters treat seriously. 

Think before you speak ; pronounce not imperfectly, nor bring 
out your words too hastily, but orderly and distinctly. When 



134 LEISUEE HOUES. 



another speaks, be attentive yourself, and disturb not the audience. 
If any hesitate in his words, help him not, nor prompt him without 
being desired; interrupt him not, nor answer him till his speech 
be ended. 

Treat with men at fit times about business, and whisper not in 
the company of others. 

Make no comparisons; and if any of the company be com- 
mended for any brave act of virtue, commend not another for the 
same. 

Be not apt to relate news if you know not the truth thereof. 
In discoursing of things you have heard, name not your author 
always. A secret discover not. 

Be not curious to know the affairs of others, neither approach 
to those that speak in private. 

Undertake not what you cannot perform, but be careful to 
keep your promise. 

When you dehver a matter, do it without passion and indiscre- 
tion, however mean the person may be you do it to. 

When your superiors talk to anybody, hear them; neither 
speak nor laugh. 

In disputes be not so desirous to overcome as not to give lib- 
erty to each one to deliver his opinion, and submit the judgment 
of the major part, especially if they are judges of the dispute. 

Be not tedious in discourse, make not many digressions, nor 
repeat often the same matter of discourse. 

Speak no evil of the absent, for it is unjust. 

Let your recreations be manful, net sinful. 

Labor to keep ahve in your bre&st that httle spark of celestia^ 
fire called conscience. 

Be not angry at table, whatever happens; and if j-ou liave rea- 
son to be so show it not; put on a clieerful couiaienance. especiallj 
if there be strangers, for good humor makes one dish a feast. 

When you speak of God or his attributes, let it be seriously 
in reverence and honor, and obey your n-itural parents. 




"not a feather she moves, notacabolshe sings 
as she waits in her tree so still." 



THE OWL. 



The OttvI. 

In the hollow tree, in the old gray tower, 

The spectral owl doth dwell; 
Dull, hated, despised, in the sunshine hour, 

But at dusk he's abroad and well! 
Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him; 
All mock him outright by day; 
But at night, when the woods grow still and dim. 
The boldest will shrink away! 

O, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl. 

Then, then is the reign of the horned owl! 

And the owl hath a bride, who is fond and bold, 

And loveth tte wood's deep gloom ; 
And, with eyes like the shine of the moon-stone cold, 

She awaitest her gastly ^room ; 
Not a feather she moves, not a carol she sings, 

As she waits in her tree so still ; 
But when her heart heareth his flapping wings, 

She hoots out her welcome shrill ! 

0! when the moon shines, and dogs do howl. 

Then, then, is the joy of the horned owl! 

Mourn not for the owl, nor his gloomy plight! 

The owl haLh his share of good : 
If a prisoner he be in broad daylight, 

He is lord in the dark green wood ! 
Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghastly mate. 

They are each unto each a pride ! 
Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange, dark fate 

Hath rent them from all beside! 



138 LEISURE HOUHS. 



So, when the night falls, and dogs do howl. 

Sing ho ! for the reign of the horned owl ! 

We know not alway 

Who are kings by day, 

But the king of the night is the bold brown owl! 



■Rural Life in England. 

The stranger who would form a correct opinion of the Enghsh 
character must not confine his observations to the metropolis. He 
must go forth into the country; he must sojourn in villages and 
hamlets; he must visit castles, villas, farmhouses, cottages; he 
must wander through parks and gardens, along hedges and green 
lanes; he must loiter about country churches, attend wakes and 
fairs, and other rural festivals, and cope with the people in all their 
conditions, and all their habits and humors. 

In some countries, the large cities absorb the wealth and fashion 
of the nation; they are the only fixed abodes of elegant and intelli- 
gent society, and the country is inhabited almost entirely by boorish 
peasantry. In England, on the contrary, the metropohs is a mere 
gathering-place, or general rendezvous, of the polite classes, where 
they devote a smaU portion of the year to a hurry of gayety and 
dissipation, and having indulged this carnival, return again to the 
apparently more congenial habits of rural hfe. The various orders 
of society are therefore diffused over the whole surface of the king- 
dom, and the most retired neighborhoods afford specimens of the 
different ranks. 

The English, in fact, are strongly gifted with the rural feehng. 
They possess a quick sensibihty to the beauties of nature, and a 
keen rehsh for the pleasures and employments of the country. This 
passion seems inherent in them. Even the inhabitants of cities, 
born and brought up among brick walls and busthng streets, enter 



RURAL LIFE IN ENGLAlSfD. 139 

with facility into rural habits and evince a turn for rural occupa- 
tion. The merchant has his snug retreat in the vicinity of the 
metropohs, where he often displays as much pride and zeal in the 
cultivation of his flower-garden and the maturing of his fruits as 
he does in the conduct of his business and the success of his com- 
mercial enterprises. Even those less fortunate individuals who 
are doomed to pass their hves in the midst of din and traffic, con- 
trive to have something that shaU remind them of the green aspect 
of nature. In the most dark and dingy quarters of the city, the 
drawing-room window resembles, frequently, a bank of flowers; 
every spot capable of vegetation has its grass plot and flower-bed 
and every square its mimic park, laid out with picturesque taste and 
gleaming with refreshing verdure. 

Those who see the Englishman only in town are apt to form 
an unfavorable opinion of his social character. He is either 
absorbed in business or distracted by the thousand engagements 
that dissipate time, thought and feeling, in this huge metropolis ; 
he has, therefore, too commonly, a look of hurry and abstraction. 
Wherever he happens to be he is on the point of going somewhere 
else; at the moment he is talking on one subject his mind is wan- 
dering to another; and while paying a friendly visit, he is calcula- 
ting how he shall economize time so as to pay the other visits allotted 
to the morning. An immense metropohs like London is calculated 
to make men selfish and uninteresting. In their casual and tran- 
sient meetings, they can but deal briefly in common places. They 
present but the cold superfices of character — its rich and genial 
quahties have no time to be warmed into a flow. 

It is in the country that the Englishman gives scope to his 
natural feehngs. He breaks loose gladly from the cold formahties 
and negative civihties of town ; throws off his habits of shy reserve, 
and becomes joyous and free-hearted. He manages to collect around 
him aU the conveniences and elegancies of pohte hfe, and to banish 
its restraint. His country seat abounds with every requisite, either 
for studious retirement, tasteful gratification, or rural exercise. 
Books, paintings, music, horses, dogs, and sporting implements of 



140 LEISURE HOTTES. 



all kinds, are at hand. He puts no constraint either upon his 
guests or himself, but in the true spirit of hospitality provides the 
means of enjoyment, and leaves every one to partake according 
to his inclination. 

The taste of the English in the cultivation of land, and in what 
is caUed landscape gardening, is unrivaled. They have studied 
nature intently, and discover an exquisite sense of her beautiful 
forms and harmonious combinations. Those charms, which in 
other countries she lavishes in wild sohtudes, are here assembled 
round the haunts of domestic hfe. They seem to have caught her 
coy and furtive glances, and spread them, like witchery, about their 
rural abodes. 

Nothing can be more imposing than the magnificence of 
English park scenery. Vast lawns that extend hke sheets of vivid 
green, with here and there clumps of gigantic trees, heaping up 
rich piles of fohage. The solemn pomp of groves and woodland 
glades, with the deer trooping in silent herds across them; the hare, 
bounding away to the covert; or the pheasant, suddenly bursting 
upon the wing. The brook, taught to wind in the most natural 
meanderings, or expand into a glassy lake — the sequestered pool, 
reflecting the quivering trees, with the yehow leaf sleeping on its 
bosom, and the trout roaming fearlessly about its limpid waters; 
while some rustic temple or sylvan statue, grown green and dark 
with age, gives an air of classic sanctity to the seclusion. These 
are but a few of the features of park scenery; but what most 
dehghts me, is the creative talent with which the Enghsh decorate 
the unostentatious abodes of middle hfe. The rudest habitation, 
the most unpromising and scanty portion of land, in the hands of 
an Englishman of taste, becomes a httle paradise. With a nicely 
discriminating eye he seizes at once upon its capabihties, and pic- 
tures in his mind the future landscape. The sterile spot grows in- 
to lovehness under his hand; and yet the operations of art which 
produce the effect are scarcely to be perceived. The cherishing and 
training of some trees; the cautious pruning of others; the nice 
distribution of flowers and plants of tender and graceful fohage; the 



RURAL LIFE m ENGLAND. 141 

introduction of a green slope of velvet turf; the partial opening to 
a peep of blue distance, or silver gleam of water; all these are man- 
aged with a dehcate tact, a prevailing, yet quiet assiduity, Hke the 
magic touchings with which a painter finishes ujj a favorite picture. 
The residence of people of fortune and refinement in the country 
has diffused a degree of taste and elegance in rural economy that 
descends to the lowest class. The very laborer, with his thatched 
cottage and narrow shp of ground, attends to their embelhshment. 
The trim hedge, the grass-plot before the door, the httle flower bed 
bordered with snug box, the woodbine trained up against the wall, 
and hanging its blossoms about the lattice, the pot of flowers in the 
window, the holly providentially planted about the house, to cheat 
Winter of its dreariness, and throw in a semblance of green Summer 
to cheer the fireside; aU these bespeak the influence of taste, flow- 
ing down from high sources and pervading the lowest levels of the 
pubhc mind. If ever love, as poets sing, dehght to visit a cottage, 
it must be the cottage of an Enghsh peasant. 

The fondness for rural life among the higher classes of the 
Enghsh has had a great and salutary effect upon the national char- 
acter. I do not know a finer race of men than the English gentle- 
men. Instead of the softness and effeminacy which characterizes 
the men of rank in most countries, they exhibit a union of elegance 
and strength, a robustness of frame, and freshness of complexion, 
which I am inchned to attribute to their living so much in the open 
air, and pursuing so eagerly the invigorating recreations of the 
country. These hardy exercises produce also a healthful tone of 
mind and spirits, and a manhness and simphcity of manners, which 
even the follies and dissipations of the town cannot easily pervert, 
and can never entirely destroy. In the country, too, the different 
orders of society seem to approach more freely, to be more disposed 
to blend and operate favorably upon each other. The distinctions 
between them do not appear to be so marked and impassible as in 
the cities. The manner in which property has been distributed into 
smaU estates and farms has estabhshed a regular gradation from 
the nobleman, through the classes of gentry, small landed propri- 



142 LEISUEE HOURS. 



etors and substantial farmers, down to the laboring peasantry; and 
while it has thus banded the extremes of society together, has 
infused into each intermediate rank a spirit of independence. This, 
it must be confessed, is not so universally the case at present as it 
was formerly; the larger estates having, in late years of distress, 
absorbed the smaller, and, in some parts of the comitry, almost 
annihilated the sturdy ' race of small farmers. These, however, I 
beheve, are but casual breaks in the general system I have men- 
tioned. 

In rural occupation there is nothing mean and debasing. It 
leads a man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and beauty; 
it leaves him to the workings of his own mind, operated upon by 
the purest and most elevating of external influences. Such a raan 
may be simple and rough, but he cannot be vulgar. The man of 
refinement, therefore, finds nothing revolting in an intercourse with 
the lower orders of rural life, as he does when he casually mingles 
with the lower orders of cities. He lays aside his distance and 
reserve, and is glad to waive the distinctions of rank and to enter 
into the honest, heartfelt enjoyment of common hfe. Indeed, the 
very amusements of the country bring men more and more together, 
and the sound of hoTind and horn blend all feehngs into harmony. 
I beheve this is one great reason why the nobihty and gentry are 
more popular among the inferior orders in England than they .are 
in any other country; and why the latter have endured so many 
excessive pressures and extremities, without repining more gener- 
ally at the unequal distribution of fortune and privilege. 

To this minghng of cultivated and rustic society may also be 
attributed the rural feeling that runs through British literature ; 
the frequent use of illustrations from rural hfe — those incomparable 
descriptions of nature which abound in the British poets, that have 
continued down from "The Flower and the Leaf," of Chaucer, and 
have brought into our closets aU the freshness and fragrance of the 
dewy landscape. The pastoral writers of other countries appear as 
if they had paid nature an occasional visit, and become acquainted 
with her general charms; but the British poets have hved and 



RURAL LIFE IK ENGLAND. 143 

reveled "with her ; they have wooed her in her most secret haunts ; 
they have watched her minutest caprices. A spray could not 
tremhle in the breeze, a leaf could not rustle to the ground, a 
diamond drop could not patter in the stream, a fragrance could not 
exhale from the humble violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints 
to the morning, but it has been noticed by these impassioned and 
deUcate observers, and wrought up into some beautiful morahty. 

The effect of this devotion of elegant minds to rural occupations 
has been wonderfid on the face of the country. A great part of 
the island is level, and would be monotonous were it not for the 
charms of culture; but it is studded and gemmed, as it were, with 
castles and palaces, and embroidered with parks and gardens. It 
does not abound in grand and subhme prospects, but rather in httle 
home scenes of rural repose and sheltered quiet. Every antique 
farm-house and moss-grown cottage is a picture; and as the roads 
are continually winding, and the view is shut in by groves and 
hedges, the eye is dehghted by a continual succession of smaU land- 
scapes of captivating lovehness. 

The great charm, however, of Enghsh scenery is the moral 
feehng that seems to pervade it. It is associated in the mind with 
ideas of order, of quiet, of sober, weU-estabhshed principles, of 
hoary usage and reverend custom. Everything seems to be the 
growth of ages of regular and peaceful existence. The old church 
of remote achitecture, with its low.massive portal, its Gothic tower, 
its windows rich with tracery and j)ainted glass, its stately monu- 
ments of warriors and worthies of the olden time, ancestors of the 
present lords of the soil, its tombstones, recording successive gene- 
rations of sturdy yeomanry, whose progeny still plow the same 
fields and kneel at the same altar. The parsonage, a quaint, 
irregular pile, partly antiquated, but repaired and altered in the 
taste of various ages and occupants ; the stile and foot-path leading 
from the churchyard across pleasant fields and along shady hedge- 
rows, according to an immemorable right of way; the neighboring 
village with its venerable cottages, its public green, sheltered by 
trees tinder which the forefathers of the present race have sported; 

4 



144 LEISUEE HOUES. 



the antique family mansion, standing apart in some little rural 
domain, but looking down with a protecting air on the surrounding 
scene, — all these common features of Enghsh landscape evince a 
calm and settled security, and hereditary transmission of home- 
bred virtues and local attachments, that speak deeply and touch- 
ingly for the moral character of the nation. 

It is a pleasing sight on a Sunday morning, when the bell is 
sending its sober melody across the quiet fields, to behold the peas- 
antry in their best finery, Avith ruddy faces and modest cheerful- 
ness, thronging tranquilly along the green lanes to church ; but it 
is still more pleasing to see them in the evenings, gathering about 
their cottage doors, and appearing to exult in the humble comforts 
and embeUishments which their own hands have spread around 
them. 



Our Revolutionary Fathers 

[The following address to our Revolutionary Fathers, we take from Webster's 
"masterpiece as a dedicatory orator;" an address delivered at the laying of the 
comer-stone of the Bunker Hill Monument, at Charlestown, Mass., June 17, 1825.] 

Venerable men! you have come down to us from a former 
generation. Heaven has bounteously lengthened out your hves 
that you might behold this joyous day. You are now where you 
stood fifty years ago this very hour, with your brothers and your 
neighbors, shoulder to shoulder in the strife of your country. 
Behold, how altered! The same heavens are indeed over your 
heads, the same ocean rolls at your feet, but all else how changed! 
You hear now no roar of hostile cannon, you see no mixed volumes 
of smoke and flame rising from burning Charlestown. The ground 
strewed with the dead and the dying, the impetuous charge, the 
steady and successful repulse, the loud call to repeated assault, the 
summoning of aU that is manly to repeated resistance, a thousand 
bosoms freely and fearlessly bared in an instant to whatever of 



OUE REVOLUTIONARY FATHERS. 145 

terror there may be in war and death, — all these you have wit- 
nessed, but you witness them no more. AH is peace. The heights 
of yonder metropoHs, its towers and roofs, which you then saw 
filled with wives and children and coimtrymen in distress and 
terror, and looking with unutterable emotions for the issue of the 
combat, have presented you to-day with the sight of its whole 
happy population, come out to welcome and greet you with an uni- 
versal jubilee. Yonder proud ships, by a fehcity of position appro- 
priately lying at the foot of this moimt, and seeming fondly to 
chng around it, are not means of annoyance to you, but your 
country's own means of distinction and defense. All is peace, and 
God has granted you this sight of your coimtry's happiness ere you 
slumber forever in the grave. He has allowed you to behold and 
to partake the reward of your patriotic toils, and he has allowed 
us, your sons and countrymen, to meet you here, and in the name 
of the present generation, in the name of your country, in the 
name of hberty, to thank you ! 

But, alas ! you are not all here ! Time and the sword have 
thinned your ranks. Prescott, Putnam, Stark, Brooks, Read, 
Pomeroy, Bridge ! our eyes seek for you in vain amid this broken 
band! You are gathered to your fathers, and hve only to your 
coimtry in her grateful remembrance and your own bright example. 
But let us not too much grieve that you have met the common fate 
of men. You lived at least long enough to know that your work 
had been nobly and successfully accomphshed. You hved to see 
your Country's independence established and to sheathe your swords 
from war. On the light of liberty you saw arise the light of peace, 
like 

"Another mom. 
Risen on mid-noon ;" 

and the sky on which you closed your eyes was cloudless. 

But, ah! Him! the first great martyr in this great cause! 
Him ! the premature victim of his own self-devoting heart ! Him ! 
the head of our civil councils, and the destined leader of our mih- 
tary bands, whom nothing brought hither but the unquenchable 



146 LEISURE HOURS. 



fire of his own spirit! Him! cut off by Providence in the hour of 
overwhehning anxiety and thick gloom, falling ere he saw the star 
of his country rise, pouring out his generous blood hke water, 
before he knew whether it would fertihze a land of freedom or of 
bondage ! How shall I struggle with the emotions that stifle the 
utterance of thy name! Our poor work may perish, but thine 
shall endure ! This monument may molder away, the sohd ground 
it rests upon may sink down to a level with the sea, but thy 
memory shaU not fail ! Wheresoever among men a heart shall be 
found that beats to the transports of patriotism and liberty, its 
aspirations shall be to claim kindred with thy spirit ! 

But the scene amidst which we stand does not permit us to 
confine our thoughts or our sympathies to those fearless spirits who 
hazarded or lost their lives on this consecrated spot. We have the 
happiness to rejoice here in the presence of a most worthy repre- 
sentation of the survivors of the whole Eevolutionary Army. 

Veterans ! you are the remnant of many a well-fought field. 
You bring with you marks of honor from Trenton and Monmouth, 
from Yorktown, Camden, Bennington and Saratoga. Veterans of 
half a century ! when in your youthful days you put everything at 
hazard in your country's cause, good as that cause was, and san- 
guine as youth is, still your fondest hopes did not stretch onward 
to an hour hke this ! At a period to which you could not reason- 
ably have expected to arrive, at a moment of national prosperity 
such as you could never kave foreseen, you are now met here to 
enjoy the fellowship of oid soldiers and to receive the overflowing 
of an universal gratitude. 

But your agitated countenances and your heaving breasts 
inform me that even this is not an unmixed joy. I perceive that a 
tumult of contending feelings rushes upon you. The images of the 
dead, as well as the persons of the hving, throng to your embraces. 
The scene overwhelms you, and I turn from it. May the Father 
of aU mercies smile upon your declining years and bless them! 
And when ^ou shall here have exchanged your embraces, when you 
shaU one nore have pressed the hands which have been so often 



OUR REVOLUTIONARY FATHERS. 147 

extended to give siiccor in adversity, or grasped in the exultation of 
victory, then look abroad into this lovely land which your young 
valor defended, and mark the happiness with which it is filled ; yea, 
look abroad in the whole earth and see what a name you have con- 
tributed to give to your country, and what a praise you have added 
to freedom, and then rejoice in the sympathy and gratitude which 
beam upon your last days from the improved condition of mankind ! 

[Here follow a few remarks In which Mr. "Webster refers to the effects of the 
battle of June 17th and Its impression upon those who were about to engage in the 
struggle for equal rights. He sees the colonists standing together and he expresses 
the hope that this feeling will remain -with them forever : "One cause, one country 
one heart."] Mr. Webster then continues as follows : 

Information of these events, circulating through Europe, at 
length reached the ears of one who now hears me.* He has not 
forgotten the emotion which the fame of Bunker Hill and the name 
of Warren excited in his youthful breast. 

Sir, we are assembled to commemorate the establishment of 
great public principles of liberty, and to do honor to the distin- 
guished dead. The occasion is too severe for eulogy to the living. 
But, sir, your interesting relation to this country, the pecuhar cir- 
cumstances which surround you and surround us, call on me to 
express the happiness which we derive from your presence and aid 
in this solemn commemoration. 

Fortunate, fortunate man ! with what measure of devotion will 
you not thank God for the circumstances of your extraordinary 
hfe! You are connected with both hemispheres, and with two 
generations. Heaven saw fit to ordain that the electric spark of 
hberty should be conducted, through you, from the New World to 
the Old; and, we who are now here to perform this duty of patriot- 
ism have all of us long ago received it in charge from our fathers 
to cherish your name and your virtues. You will account it an 
instance of your good fortune, sir, that you crossed the seas to visit us 
at a time which enables you to be present at this solemnity. You now 
behold the field, the renown of which reached you in the heart of 

♦General Lafayett© 



148 LEISURE HOUES. 



France, and caused a thrill in your ardent bosom. You see the 
Knes of the httle redoubt thrown up by the incredible dihgence of 
Prescott; defended, to the last extremity, by his lion-hearted valor; 
and, within which, the corner-stone of our monxunent has now 
taken its position. You see where Warren fell, and where Parker, 
Gardner, McCleary, Moore, and other early patriots fell with him. 
Those who survived that day, and whose hves have been prolonged 
to the present hour, are now around you. Some of them you have 
known in the trying scenes of the war. Behold ! they now stretch 
forth their feeble arms to embrace you. Behold ! they raise their 
trembhng voices to invoke the blessing of God on you and yours 
forever. 

Sir, you have assisted us in laying the foundation of this edifice. 
You have heard us rehearse, with our feeble commendation, the 
names of departed patriots. Sir, monuments and eulogy belong to 
the dead. We give them this day to Warren and his associates. 
On other occasions, they have been given to your more immediate 
companions in arms, to Washington, to Greene, to Gates, SuUivan, 
and Lincoln. Sir, we have become reluctant to grant these, our 
highest and last honors ; further : we would gladly hold them yet 
back from the little remnant of that immortal band. Sei-us in 
ccelum redeas. Illustrious as are your merits, yet far. Oh, very far 
distant be the day, when any inscription shall bear your name, or 
any tongue pronounce its eulogy. 





FRUITLETS LABOR. 



A MUSICAL INSTRUMENT. 151 



A Musical Instrument. 

What was he doing, the great god Pan, 

Down in the reeds by the river? 
Spreading ruin and scattering ban, 
Splashing and paddling with hoofs of a goat, 
And breaking the golden lilies afloat 

With the dragon-fly on the river? 

He tore out a reed, the great gcd Pan, 
From the deep, cool bed of the river. 

The limpid water turbidly ran, 

And the broken lilies a-dying lay. 

And the dragon-fly had fled away, 
Ere he brought it out of the river. 

High on the shore sate the great god Pan, 

While turbidly flowed the river, 
And hack'd and hew'd as a great god can 
With his hard, bleak steel at the patient reed, 
Till there was not a sign of a leaf indeed 

To prove it fresh from the river. 

He cut it short, did the great god Pan 

(How tall it stood in the river !) 
Then drew the pith like the heart of a man, 
Steadily from the outside ring. 
Then notch'dthe poor dry empty thing 

In holes as he sate by the river. 

'This is the way," laugh'd the great god Pan 

(Laugh'd while he sate by the river), 
'The only way since gods began 



152 LEISUBB HOUES. 



To make sweet music, they could succeed." 
Then dropping his mouth to a hole in the reed, 
He blew in power by the river. 

Sweet, sweet, sweet, Pan, 

Piercing sweet by the river ! 
Binding sweet, great god Pan ! 
The sun on the hill forgot to die, 
And the lilies revived, and the dragon-fly 

Came back to dream on the river. 

Yet half a beast is the great god Pan, 

To laugh as he sits by the river, 
Making a poet out of a man. 
The true god's sigh for the cost and the pain,- 
For the reed that grows nevermore again 

As a reed with the reeds of the river. 




AT THE OPEN WINDOW. 153 



At the Open ■Window. 

Here I am, to-day, sitting by an open window, the wind as gen- 
tle as June, playfully lifting the corners of the paper I write on, and 
letting them softly down again ; while yesterday, or the day before, 
I was in perihehon, nestled close in the chimney- comer; and wind 
— could it have been this same wind, now toying with the tassel of 
the curtain, that in such a mood twisted up a little oak by the roots, 
that never did any harm, and hollow-voiced and frosty from the dim 
northwest, made penny-whistles of the huge, old-fashioned chim- 
ney-tops? Nature is a good deal of a rhetorician; she loves rapid 
transitions and starthng contrasts. . 

Time, itself, all through the long-drawn past, is inlaid with day 
and night — night and day. Suppose it had been aU day through 
the world; it would have been "aU day" with us — our happiness, our 
interests, and life would be "dull" at eighty cents on the dollar. 
Now, we are like those wandering at leisure from room to room, in 
some splendid suite of apartments, divided by the dark and marble 
walls of night. We enter some beautiful day, pearl for its threshold 
and crimson for its curtains. With what music they rustle as un- 
seen hands hft them to let us through ! And what varied surprises 
keep us on the qui vice aU along, as we pass through it! And how 
gorgeous the drapery let down behind us, as we enter the dark open- 
ing in the walls of night — those walls God built, and yet, through 
which, at a thousand points, shine divided days, yesterday, and to- 
morrow ! 

And what a lamp — no "Astral," but a true Lunar, is hung in 
the passage-way; and then, when we have done wandering through 
this great temple of Time, and pass the last door, and the veil closes 
down before the last day, and we find ourselves "out doors" in the 
•mi verse, and free to go whither we wiU — children again — aye, chil- 
iten "just let loose from school."How we shall scatter away ove'- 



154 LEISUEE HOURS., 



fields all flowers, and no frosts, where there is no such word as 
November, and no such thought as death. Life will be hfe still, but 
without its struggle, and ourselves still ourselves, but with windows 
aU around the soul. We shall see hearts beat as plainly then, as 
we now see the movements of delicate chronometers beneath their 
crystal cases — emotions will be visible — the footfalls of thought 
audible — the trickery of Hght and shade by-gone, and things will 
appear as they are. 

And the pleasant surprises that shall meet us there ; perhaps 
the trees will grow by music, and the streams murmur articulate; 
perhaps we shall meet and recognize those who had gone on before. 
New scenes, new beauties, new thought — everywhere "plus ultra" — 
more beyond. 



.And Such a Change. 

The glories of twilight have departed, and the gray night of the 
year has, at last, set in. 

The tree by my window has thrown off the red and yellow liv- 
ery it has worn of late, and with naked arms tossing "wildly about, 
stands shivering in the gusts, dismantled and desolate. Strange to 
say, I love it better than when song and shadow met in its branches 
— better than ever; but it is not a love born of pity; it needs none, 
for its life is locked up safely in the earth beneath, and whistle as it 
will, the boatswain of aWinter wind cannot pipe up a pulse or a bud. 
Through its leafless hmbs I can see Heaven, now, and there are no 
stars in the trees in June. The sweet brier creaks uneasily against 
the waU; the snow is heaped on the window sill; the frost is "castle 
building" on the panes; the streams are dumb; the woods stand 
motionless under the Aveight of white Winter. 

It is Saturday — Saturday afternoon; the children "just let loose 
from school," and Clear Lake is swarming with juvenile skaters. 

Grouped here and there in clusters, like swarms of bees or bev- 



AND SUCH A CHANGE. 155 

ies of blackbirds in council, now and then, one and another and a 
third dash out in graceful circles, with motion as easy as flying. 
Huge sixes and sweeping eights, and eagles "with enormous length 
of wings, are "cut" upon the "sohd water." 

Presently the whole cluster breaks and fly in every direction, 
like a flock of pigeons. There go a brace in a trial of speed; there, 
a Castor and Pollux, hand in hand; here, a game of goal is going 
on, and here, a game of "red hon." 

Away there hes a httle feUow upon his back, taking his first les- 
son in skater's astronomy. Ask him, and he will tell you he "saw 
stars" bu.t a moment ago, that never were named. 

The sun is going down in the west, and they have been upon 
the ice since high noon. But what is that to them? "What care 
they for cold, and fatigue, and time? Saturday comes but once a 
week, and ice hardly once a year. But they'll find ice enough by 
and by — ice in midsummer — iced hopes, iced friendship, icy hearts. 
And as for the Saturdays, they'll grow "feAV and far between" — 
they'll not come once a week, nor once a month ; and happy will he 
be who has a Saturday afternoon and evening to end his life with. 
Then who says the boys sha'n't skate? Who grudges them the 
"rockers?" Look at that httle feUow now; on one arm hang his 
skates, a "brand new" pair, ghttering like a couple of scimetars. 
'Tis his first appearance on the skater's field. Down he gets upon 
the ice; his httle red and white mittens, tethered with a string. He 
beside him, while with his chubby red fingers he daUies and tugs 
with buckles and straps, every now and then blowing his fingers to 
keep them in a glow. All right and tight, he's rigged, he's ready, 
he's up and off! What warrior ever harnessed for the field and the 
fray with a richer pride manthng his cheek, or a brighter joy light- 
ing his eye ! There may have been one or two, but there is no rec- 
ord of them in Froissart. 



io6 LEISURE HOUES. 



Musing by the Fire. 

Musing here by the sleepy fire, this stormy night, about "one 
thing and another," the chime of bells, httle and big, comes sweetly 
to my ear through the snowy air. 

Those sounds are mnemonic — they are the sweet beUs of the 
past; and in the time of a single note, we are back again into the 
vanished years in a winter's night, the moon at the full, "some- 
body very near," and the merry beUs ringing as they ring now. 
How Silvery were the laughs that issued then, from beneath the 
downy mufflers and quilted hoods. How bright were the eyes that 
glittered through green veils then, like stars through a leafy wood. 
BeUs ! There have been knells since then, and those who "make no 
new friends," must journey alone. You who vaunt upon life and 
station and the permanence of things earthly, return to the scenes 
of your youthful days of a winter's night. And the "turn-out" — 
let it be as of old, and call here and there, where dwelt the com- 
panions of a brighter time. Here the stranger, there the estranged, 
and there, echo answers to your impatient rap. 

The horses are at the gate, eager to be gone, and shake music 
from those bells at every toss of the head. But it is not music to 
you, and turning slowly homeward, you pass in the moonlight a 
field furrowed mth many a drifted heap. It is "God's Field," and 
many who were your companions on just such a night, lie silent 
there. Aye! muffle the bells of memory, and pass on, a sadder but 
a wiser man. 



Marriage. 157 



Marriage. 

They that enter in the state of marriage cast a die of the greatest 
contingency and yet of the greatest interest in the world, next to 
tlie last throw for eternity. Life or death, fehcity or a lasting sor- 
row, are in the power of marriage. A woman, indeed, ventures 
most, for she has no sanctuary to retire to from an evil husband ; 
she must dwell upon her sorrow, and hatch the eggs which her own 
folly or infehcity hath produced; and she is more under it, because 
her tormentor hath a warrant of j)rerogative, and the woman may 
complain to God, as subjects do of tyrant princes; but otherwise 
she has no appeal in the causes of unkindness. And though the 
man can run from many hours of his sadness, yet he must return 
to it again ; and when he sits among his neighbors he remembers 
the objection that lies in his bosom, and he sighs deeply. The boys 
and the pedlers, and the fruiterers, shall tell of this man when he 
is carried to his grave, that he lived and died a poor wretched 
person. 

The stags in the Grreek epigram, whose knees were clogged 
with frozen snow upon the mountains, came down to the brooks of 
the valleys, hoping to thaw their joints -with the waters of the stream; 
but there the frost overtook them, and bound them fast in ice, till 
the young herdsmen took them in their stranger snare. It is 
the unhappy chance of many men; finding many inconveniences 
upon the mountains of single life, they descend into the vaUeys of 
marriage to refresh their troubles; and there they enter into fetters, 
and are bound to sorrow by the chords of a man or woman's 
peevishness. 

Man and wife are equally concerned to avoid all offences of 
each other in the beginning of their conversation ; every little thing 
can blast an infant blossom, and the breath of the South can 
shake the Httle rings of the vine, when first they begin to curl like 
the locks of a new weaned boy; but when by age and consolidation 
they stiffen in the hardness of a stem, and have, by the warm em- 



158 LEISURE HOURS. 



braces of the sun and the kisses of the heaven, brought forth their 
dusters, they can endure the storms of the North, and the loud 
noises of a tempest, and yet never be broken : so are the early unions 
of an unfixed marriage; watchful and observant, jealous and busy, 
inquisitive and careful, and apt to take alarm at every unkind word. 
After the hearts of the man and the wife are endeared and hard- 
ened by a mutual confidence and experience, longer than artifice and 
pretense can last, there are a great many remembrances, and some 
things present, that dash aU unkindnesses in pieces. • • • • 

There is nothing can please a man without love ; and if a man 
be weary of the wise discourses of the apostles, and of the innocency 
of an even and a private fortune, or hates peace, or a fruitful 
year, he hath reaped thorns and thistles from the choicest flowers 
of Paradise, for nothing can sweeten fehcity itself but love; but 
when a man dwells in love, then the breasts of his wife are pleasant 
as the droppings upon the hill of Hermoia; her eyes are fair as the 
hght of heaven; she is a fountain sealed, and he can quench his 
thirst, and ease his cares, and lay his sorrows down upon her lap, 
and can retire home to his sanctuary and refectory, and his gardens 
of sweetness and chaste refreshments. No man can teU but he that 
loves his children, how many delicious accents make a man's heart 
dance in the pretty conversation of those dear pledges ; their child- 
ishness, their stammering, their little angers, their innocence, their 
imperfections, their necessities, are so many httle emanations of 
joy and comfort to him that delights in their persons and society. 
• • • • It is fit that I should infuse a bunch of myrrh into the fes- 
tival goblet, and, after the Egyptian manner, serve up a dead man's 
bones at a feast ; I will only shew it, and take it away again ; it will 
make the wine bitter, but wholesome. But those married pairs 
that hve as remembering that they must part again, and give an 
account how they treat themselves and each other, shall, at that 
day of their death, be admitted to glorious espousals; and when 
they shall live again, be married to their Lord, and partake of his 
glories with Abraham and Joseph, St. Peter and St. Paul, and all 
the married saints. AU those things that now please us shall 

13 



■The skylark. 159 



pass from us, or we from them ; but those things that concern the 
other hfe are permanent as the numbers of eternity. And although 
at the resurrection there shall be no relation of husband and wife, 
and no marriage shall be celebrated but the marriage of the Lamb, 
yet then shall be remembered how men and women passed through 
this state, which is a type of that ; and from this sacramental union 
all holy pairs shall pass to the spiritual and eternal, where love 
shall be their portion, and joys shall crown their heads, and they 
shall lie in the bosom of Jesus, and in the heart of God, to eternal 
ages. 



The Skylark. 



For so I have seen a lark rising from his bed of grass, and 
soaring upwards, singing as he rises, and hopes to get to heaven 
and chmb above the clouds ; but the poor bird was beaten back with 
the loud sighings of an eastern wind, and his motion made irregu- 
lar and inconstant, descending more at every breath of the tempest 
than it could recover by the vibration and frequent weighing of liis 
wings, till the httle creature was forced to sit down and pant, and 
stay till the storm was over; and then it made a prosperous flight, 
and did rise and sing, as if it had learned music and motion from 
an angel, as he passed sometimes through the air, about his minis- 
tries here below. 




160 LEISURE HOURS. 



Letters. 

Blessed be letters! — they are the monitors, they are also the 
(^jomforters, an 1 they are the oiiiy true heart-talkers. Your speech, 
und their speeches, are conventional; they are molded hy circum- 
stances; they are suggested by the observation, remark, and in- 
?uence of the parties to whom the speaking is addressed, or by 
-vhom it 7Qa?iy be overheard. 

Your truest thought is modified half through its utterance by 
^ look, d, wign, a smile, or a sneer. It is not individual; it is not 
integral; it is social and mixed, half of you, and half of others. 
It bends, it sways, it multiphes, it retires, and it advances, as the 
'lalk of others presses, relaxes, or quickens. But it is not so with 
betters: — there you are, with only the souUess pen, and the snow- 
tvhite, virgin paper. Your soul is measuring itself by itself, and 
raying its own sayings : there are no sneers to modify its utterance, 
-^-no scowl to scare, — nothing is present but you and your thought. 

Utter it then freely — write it down — stamp it — burn it in the 
ink! — There it is, a true soul-print! 

Oh, the glory, the freedom, the passion of a letter! It is worth 
*ill the hp-talk of the world. Do you say, it is studied, made up, 
acted, rehearsed, contrived, artistic? Let me see it then; let me 
vun it over; tell me age, sex, circumstances, and I will tell you if 
it be studied or real; if it be the merest lip-slang put into words, 
or heart-talk blazing on the paper. I have a little paqtiet, not veiy 
large, tied up with narrow crimson ribbon, now soiled with frequent 
handhng, which far into some Winter's night I take down from its 
nook upon my shelf, and untie, and open, and run over, with such 
sorrow and such joy, — such tears and such smiles, as I am sure 
make me for weeks after, a kinder and holier man. 

There are in this httle paquet, letters in the famihar hand of a 
mother — what gentle admonition — what tender affection!- — God 
have mercy on him who outlives the tears that such admonitions 



LETTERS. 161 

and such affection call up to the eye ! There are others in the 
budget, in the delicate and unformed hand of a loved and lost sis- 
ter; — written when she and you were full of glee and the best 
mirth of youthf ulness ; does it harm you to recall that mirthf ill- 
ness? or to trace again, for the hundredth time, that scrawling 
postscript at the bottom, with its i's so carefully dotted and its 
gigantic i's so carefully crossed, by the childish hand of a little 
brother? 

I have added latterly to that paquet of letters ; I almost need a 
new and larger ribbon ; the old one is getting too short. Not a few 
of these new and cherished letters, a former Reverie has brought 
to me ; not letters of cold praise, saying it was well done, artfully 
executed, prettily imagined — no such thing: but letters of sym- 
pathy — of sympathy which means symjpathy. 

It would be cold and dastardly work to copy them ; 1 am too 
selfish for that. It is enough to say that they, the kind writers, 
have seen a heart in the Eeverie — -have felt that it was real, true. 
They know it; a secret influence has told it. What matters it, 
pray, if hterally there was no wife, and no dead child, and no 
coffin, in the house? Is not feehng, feehng and heart? Are not 
these fancies thronging on my brain, bringing tears to my eyes, 
bringing joy to my soul, as hving as anything human can be 
living? What if they have no material type — no objective form? 
All that is crude, — a mere redvictiou of ideality to sense, — -a trans- 
formation of the spiritual to the earthly, — a levehng of soul to 
matter. 

Are we not creatures of thought and passion? Is anything about 
us more earnest than that same thought and passion? Is there 
anything more real, — more characteristic of that great and dim 
destiny to which we are born, and which may be written down in 
that terrible word — Forever? 

Let those who will, then, sneer at what in their wisdom they 
caU untruth — at what is false, because it has no material presence : 
this does not create falsity ; would to Heaven that it did ! 

And yet, if there was actual, material truth, superadded to 



162 LEISUEE HOUKS. 



Eeverie, would such objectors sympathize the more? No! a 
thousand times, no ; the heart that has no sympathy with thoughts 
and feehngs that scorch the soul, is dead also — whatever its mock- 
ing tears and gestures may say — to a coffin or a grave ! 

Let them pass, and we will come back to these cherished 
letters. 

A mother who has lost a child, has, she says, shed a tear — ^not 
one, but many — over the dead boy's coldness. And another, who 
has not, but who trembles lest she lose, has found the words failing 
as she reads, and a dim, sorrow-borne mist, spreading over the 
page. 

Another, yet rejoicing in aU those family ties that make life a 
charm, has listened nervously to careful reading, untU the husband 
is called home and the coffin is in the house — " Stop ! " she says ; 
and a gush of tears tells the rest. 

Yet the cold critic will say — "It was artfully done." A curse 
on him ! — it was not art : it was nature. 

Another, a young, fresh, healthful girl-mind, has seen some- 
thing in the love-picture — albeit so weak — of truth ; and has kindly 
believed that it must be earnest. Aye, indeed is it, fair and gen- 
erous one, earnest as life and hope ! Who, indeed, with a heart at 
all, that has not yet slipped away irreparably and forever from 
the shores of youth — from that fairy land which young enthusiasm 
creates, and over which bright dreams hover — but knows it to be 
real? And so such things wiU be real, till hopes are dashed, and 
Death is come. Another, a father, has laid down the book in 
tears. — God bless them all! How far better this, than the cold 
praise of newspaper paragraphs, or the critically contrived approval 
of colder friends ! 

Let me gather up these letters carefully, — to be read when the 
heart is faint, and sick of all that there is unreal and selfish in the 
world. Let me tie them together, with a new and longer bit of 
ribbon — not by a love-knot, that is too hard — but by an easy slip- 
ping knot, that so I may get at them the better. And now they 
are all together, a snug paquet, and we will label them, not senti- 



HAPPINESS OF TEMPER. 163 

mentally (I pity the one who thinks it), but earnestly, and in the 
best meaning of the term — Souvenirs clu Cceur. 

Thanks to my first Eeverie, which has added to such a treasure I 



Happiness of Temper. 

Writers of every age have endeavored to show that pleas- 
ure is in MS, and not in the objects offered for our amusement. If 
the soul be hapj)ily disposed, everything becomes capable of afford- 
ing entertainment, and distress -vsoll almost want a name. Every 
occurrence passes in review, hke the figures of a procession ; some 
may be awkward, others ill-dressed, but none but a fool is, on that 
accomit, enraged with the master of ceremonies. 

I remember to have once seen a slave, in a fortification in 
Flanders, who appeared no way touched A^dth his situation. He 
was maimed, deformed, and chained; obhged to toil from the ap- 
pearance of day till night-f aU, and condemned to this for hf e ; yet 
with aU these circumstances of apparent wretchedness, he sang, 
would have danced, but that he wanted a leg, and appeared the 
merriest, happiest man of all the garrison. What a practical phi- 
losopher was here! A hapjpy constitution supphed philosophy; 
and, though seemingly destitute of wisdom, he was reaUy wise. 
No reading or study had contributed to disenchant the fairy-land 
around him. Everything furnished him -with an opportunity of 
mirth; and though some thought him, from his insensibihty, a fool, 
he was such an idiot as philosophers should wish to imitate. 

They, who, hke that slave, can place themselves on that 
side of the world in which everything appears in a pleasant hght, 
will find something in every occurrence to excite their good humor. 
The most calamitous events, either to themselves or others, can 
bring no new affliction ; the world is to them a theater, on which 
only comedies are acted. All the bustle of heroism or the aspira- 



164 LEISURE HOURS. 



tions of ambition seem only to heighten the absurdity of the scene» 
and make the humor more poignant. They feel, in short, as httlts 
anguish at their own distress or the complaints of others, as the 
undertaker, though dressed in black, feels sorrow at a fmieral. 

Of all the men I ever read of, the famous Cardinal de Eetz 
possessed this happiness in the highest degree. When fortune 
wore her angriest look, and he fell into the power of Cardinal 
Mazarin, his most deadly enemy (being confined a close prisoner 
in the castle of Valenciennes), he never attempted to support his 
distress by wisdom or philosophy, for he pretended to neither. He 
only laughed at himself and his persecutor, and seemed infinitely 
pleased at his new situation. In this mansion of distress, though 
denied all amusements and even the conveniences of life, and en- 
tirely cut off from all intercourse with his friends, he still retained 
his good humor, laughed at the httle spite of his enemies, and car- 
ried the jest so far as to write the hie of his jailer. 

All that the wisdom of the proud can teach is to be stub- 
born or sullen under misfortunes. The Cardinal's example will 
teach us to be good-humored in circumstances of the highest afflic- 
tion. It matters not whether our good humor be construed by 
others into insensibility or idiotism; it is happiness to ourselves, 
and none but a fool could measure his satisfaction by what the 
ivorld thinks of it. 

The happiest fellow I ever knew was of the number of those 
good-natured creatures that are said to do no harm to any 
body but themselves. Whenever he fell into any misery, he called 
it "seeing life." If his head was broken by a chairman, or his 
pocket picked by a sharper, he comforted himself by imitating the 
Hibernian dialect of the one, or the more fashionable cant of the 
other. Nothing came amiss to him. His inattention to money mat- 
ters had concerned his father to such a degree, that all intercession 
of friends was fruitless. The old gentleman was on his death-bed. 
The whole family (and Dick among the number) gathered around 
him. 

" I leave my second son, Andrew," said the expiring miser, 



OUR OLD GRANDMOTHER. 165 

"my whole estate ; and desire liim to be frugal. " Andrew, in a sorrow- 
ful tone (as is usual on such occasions), prayed heaven to prolong 
his hfe and health, to enjoy it himself. "I recommend Simon, my 
third son, to the care of his elder brother, and leave him, beside, 
four thousand pounds." "Ah, father!" cried Simon (in great afflic- 
tion, to be sure), "may heaven give you life and strength to enjoy 
it yolirself !" At last, turning to poor Dick: "As for you, you have 
always been a sad dog; you'll never come to good, you'U never be 
rich; I leave you a shilling to buy a halter J' "Ah, father!" cries 
Dick, without any emotion, "may heaven r/ive you life and health to 
enjoy it yourself!" 



Our Old Grandmother. 

There is an old kitchen somewhere in the past, and an old- 
fashioned fire-place therein, wth its smooth old jambs of stone; 
smooth with many knives that have been shai-pened there; smooth 
with many httle fingers that have clung there. There are andirons 
■svith rings in the top, wherein many temples of flame have been 
builded with spires and turrets of crimson. There is a broad, worn 
hearth ; broad enough for three generations to cluster on ; v.'orn by 
feet that have been torn and bleeding by the way, or been made 
"beautiful," and walked upon floors of tessellated gold. There are 
tongs in the corner, wherewith we grasped a coal, and "blo^\dug for 
a httle hfe," hghted our first candle; there is a shovel, wherewith 
were drawn forth the glowing embers in which we saw our first 
fancies and dreamed our first dreams; the shovel with which we 
stirred the logs, until the sparks rushed up the chimney as if a 
forge was in blast below, and wished we had so many lambs, or so 
many marbles, or so many somethings that we coveted; and so it 
was that we wished our first wishes. 

There is a chair, alow, rush-bottomed chair; tliere is a lit- 
tle wheel in the corner, a big wheel in the garret, a loom in the 



166 LEISURE HOURS., 



chamber. There are chestfuls of hnen and yarn, and quilts of rare 
patterns and samplers in frames. 

And everywhere and always, is the dear old wrinkled face of 
her whose firm, elastic step mocks the feeble saunter of her chil- 
dren's children, the old-fashioned grandmother of twenty years ago; 
she, the very Providence of the old homestead; she, who loved ns 
all and said she wished there were more of us to love, and took aU 
the school in the hollow for grandchildren besides. A great expan- 
sive heart washers, beneath the woolen gown, or that more stately 
bombazine, or that sole heirloom of silken texture. 

We can see her to-day, — those mild, blue eyes, with more 
of beauty in them than time could touch, or death could do more 
than hide ; those eyes that held both smiles and tears within the 
faintest call of every one of us, and soft reproof that seemed not 
passion but regret. A white tress has escaped from beneath her 
snowy cap ; she lengthened the tether of a vine that was straying 
over a window, as she came in, and plucked a four-leaf clover for 
Ellen. She sits down by the httle wheel; a tress is running 
through her fingers from the distaff's disheveled head, when a small 
voice cries, "Grandma," from the old red cradle, and "Grandma," 
Tommy shouts from the top of the stairs. Gently she lets go the 
thread, for her patience is almost as beautiful as her charity, and 
she touches the httle red bark a moment, till the young voyager is 
in a dream again, and then directs Tommy's unavailing attempts 
to harness the cat. 

The tick of the clock runs fast and low, and she opens the 
mysterious door and proceeds to wind it up. We are all on tiptoe, 
and we beg, in a breath, to be lifted up, one by one, and look in, 
the hundredth time, upon the tin cases of the weights, and the 
poor lonely pendulum, which goes to and fro by its little dim win- 
dows ; and our petitions are aU granted, and we are all lifted up, 
and we all touch with the finger the wonderful weights, and the 
music of the wheel is resumed. 

Was Mary to be married, or was Jane to be wrapped in a 
shroud? So meekly did she fold the white hands of the one upon 




OUB OLD GKANDMOTHEB. 



OUR OLD GRANDMOTHER. 169 

her still bosom that there seemed to be a prayer in them there ; 
and so sweetly did she wreathe the white rose in the hair of the 
other that one would not have wondered had more roses budded 
for company. How she stood between us and apprehended harm ; 
how the rudest of us softened beneath the gentle pressure of her 
faded and tremulous hand ! From her capacious pocket, that hand 
was ever withdrawn closed, only to be opened in our own with the 
nuts she had gathered, with the cherries she had plucked, the httle 
egg she had found, the "turn-over" she had baked, the trinkets she 
had purchased for us as the products of her spinning, the blessings 
she had stored for us, the offspring of her heart. 

What treasures of story fell from those old hps of good fair- 
ies and evil ; of the old times when she was a girl ; but we won- 
der if ever she ivas a girl— but then she couldn't be handsomer or 
dearer: — she was ever httle. And then, when we begged her to 
sing: "Sing us one of the old songs you used to sing for mother, 
grandma." 

"Children, I can't sing," she always said, and mother used 
always to lay her knitting softly down, and the kitten stopped play- 
ing with the yarn on the floor, and the clock ticked lower in the 
corner, and the fire died dowTi to a glow, like an old heart that is 
neither chilled nor dead, and grandmother sang. To be sure, it would 
not do for the parlor and concert-room nowadays; but then it was 
the old kitchen and the old-fashioned grandmother, and the old 
ballad, in the dear old times, and we can hardly see to write for the 
memory of them, though it is a hand's breadth to the sunset. 

Well, she sang. Her voice was feeble and wavering, like 
a fountain just ready to fail; but then how sweet-toned it was, and 
it became deeper and stronger; but it could net grow sweeter. 
What "joy of grief" it was to sit there around the fire, all of us, 
excepting Jane, and her we thought we saw when the door was 
opened a moment by +he wind; but then Ave were not afraid, for 
was not it her old smile she wore — to sit there around the fire, and 
weep over the woes of the babes in the woods, who laid down side 
by side in the great solemn shadows ! and how strangely glad we 



170 LEISUKE HOURS. 



felt, when the robin redbreast covered them with leaves, and last 
of all, when the angel took them out of night into day everlasting ! 

We may think what we will of it now, but the song and 
the story, heard around the kitchen fire, have colored the thoughts 
and the lives of most of us, have given the germs of whatever 
poetry blesses our hearts, whatever of memory blooms in our yes- 
terdays. Attribute whatever we may to the school and the school- 
master, the rays which make that little day we caU hfe, radiate 
from the God- swept circle of the hearthstone. 

Then she sings an old lullaby, the song of her mother; 
her mother sang it to her; but she does not sing it through, and 
falters ere it is done. She rests her head upon her hands, and is 
silent in the old kitchen. Something ghtters down between her 
fingers in the firelight, and it looks like rain in the soft sunshine. 
The old grandmother is thinking when she first heard the song, 
and of voices that sang it, when, a hght-haired and light-hearted 
girl, she hung round that mother's chair, nor saw the shadows of 
the years to come. Oh ! the days that are no more ! What words 
unsay, what deeds undo, to set back just this once the ancient 
clock of time? 

So our little hands were forever chnging to her garments, and 
staying her as if from dying; for long ago she had done hving for 
herself, and lived alone in us. 

How she used to welcome us when we were grown, and 
came back once more to the homestead ! We thought we were men 
and women, but we were children there ; the old-fashioned grand- 
mother was blind in her eyes, but she saw with her heart, as she 
always did. We threw out long shadows through the open door, 
and she felt them as they feU over her form, and she looked dimly 
up, and she said: "Edward I know, and Lucy's voice I can hear, 
but whose is that other? It must be Jane's," for she had almost 
forgotten the folded hands. "Oh, no, not Jane's, for slje — let me 
see, she is waiting for me, isn't she ?" and the old grandmothey 
wandered and wept. 

" It is another daughter, grandmother, that Edward has 
21 



OUE OLD GEANDMOTHER. 171 

brought," says some one, "for your blessing." "Has she blue eyes, 
my son? Put her hands in mine, for she is my late-born, the 
child of my old age. ShaU I sing you a song, children?" and she 
is idly fumbling for a toy, a welcome gift for the children that have 
come again. 

One of us, men as we thought we were, is weeping; she 
hears the half- suppressed sobs, and she says, as she extends her 
feeble hands, "Here, my poor child, rest upon your grandmother's 
shoulder; she will protect you from all harm." "Come, my chil- 
dren, sit around the fire again. Shall I sing you a song or teU you 
a story? Stir the fire, for it is cold; the nights are growing 
colder. " 

The clock in the corner struck nine, the bedtime of those 
old days. The song of life was indeed sung, the story told. It 
was bedtime at last. Good-night to thee, grandmother. The old- 
fashioned grandmother is no more, and we shall miss her forever. 
The old kitchen wants a presence to-day, and the i-ush- bottomed 
chair is tenantless. But we will set up a tablet in the midst of the 
heart, and write on it only this : 

SACKED TO THE MEMOEY 

OF THE 

GOOD OLD-FASHIONED GRANDMOTHER. 

GOD BLESS HER FOREVER. 




172 LEIStTEE HOITKS. 



Our Burdens. 

It is a celebrated tbougiit of Socrates, that if all the misfor- 
tunes of mankind were cast into a piiblic stock, in order to be 
equally distributed among the whole species, those who now think 
themselves the most unhappy, would jn-efer the share they are al- 
ready possessed of, before that which would fall to them by such a 
division. Horace has carried this thought a great deal further: he 
says that the hardships or misfortunes which we lie under, are 
more easy to us than those of any other person would be, in case 
we could change conditions with him. 

As I was ruminating on these two remarks, and seated in my 
elbow-chair, I insensibly fell asleep; when, on a sudden, I thought 
there was a proclamation made by Jupiter, that every mortal should 
bring in his griefs and calamities, and throw them together in a, 
heap. There was a large plain appointed for this purpose. I took 
my stand in the center of it, and saw, with a great deal of pleasure, 
the whole human species marching one after another, and throwing 
down their several loads, which immediately grew up into a pro- 
digious mountain, that seemed to rise above the clouds. 

There was a certain lady of a thin, airy shape, who was very 
active in this solemnity. She carried a magnifying glass in one 
of her hands, and was clothed in a loose, flowing robe, embroidered 
with several figures of fiends and spectres, that discovered them- 
selves in a thousand chimerical shapes, as her garments hovered in 
the wind. There was something wild and distracted in her looks. 
Her name was Fancy. She led up every mortal to the appointed 
place, after having very officiously assisted him in making up his 
pack, and laying it upon his shoulders. My heart melted within 
me, to see my fellow-creatures groaning under their respective bur- 
dens, and to consider that prodigious bulk of human calamities 
which lay before me. 

There, were, however, several persons, who gave me great 



OUR BURDENS. I7C 



diversion upon this occasion. I observed one bringing in a fardel 
very carefully concealed under an old embroidered cloak, which, 
upon his throwing it into the heap, I discovered to be poverty. 
Another, after a great deal of puffing, threw down his luggage, 
which, upon examining, I found to be his wife. 

There were multitudes of lovers saddled with very whimsical 
burdens composed of darts and flames; but, what was very odd, 
though they sighed as if their hearts would break under these bun- 
dles of calamities, they could not persuade themselves to cast them 
into the heap, when they came up to it; but, after a few faint efforts, 
shook their heads, and marched away as heavy laden as they came. 
I saw multitudes of old women throw down their wrinkles, and 
several young ones who stripped themselves of a tawny skin. 
There were very great heaps of red noses, large hps, and rusty 
teeth. The truth of it is, 1 was sui-prised to see the greatest part 
of the mountain made up of bodily deformities. Observing one 
advancing toward the heap, with a larger cargo than ordinary up- 
on his back, I found, upon his near approach, that it was only a nat- 
ural hump, which he disposed of, with great joy of heart, among 
this collection of human miseries. There were hkewise distempers 
of aU sorts ; though I could not but observe that there were many 
more imaginary than real. One httle packet I could not but take 
notice of, which was a compHcation of all the diseases incident to 
human nature, and was in the hand of a great many fine people; 
this was called the spleen. But what most of all sui-prised me, was 
a remark I made, that there was not a single vice or foUy thrown 
into the whole heap; at which I was very much astonished, having 
concluded within myseh, that every one would take this oppor- 
tunity of getting rid of his passions, prejudices, and frailties. 

I took notice in particular of a very profligate fellow, who I 
did not question came loaded with his crimes ; but upon searching 
into his bundle, I found that, instead of throwing his guilt from 
him, he had only laid down his memory. He was followed by 
another worthless rogue, who flung away his modesty instead of 
his ignorance. 



174 LElStJEE HOUBS. 



When the whole race of mankind had thus cast their burdens, 
the phantom which had been so busy on this occasion, seeing me 
an idle spectator of what had passed, approached toward me. I 
grew uneasy at her presence, when of a sudden she held her mag- 
nifying glass full before my eyes. I no sooner saw my face in it, 
but I was startled by the shortness of it, which now appeared to 
me in its utmost aggravation. The immoderate breadth of the 
features made me very much out of humor with my own counte- 
nance; upon which I threw it from me like a mask. It happened 
very luckily, that one who stood by me had just before thrown 
down his visage, which it seems was too long for him. It was, 
indeed, extended to a shameful length; I believe the very chin was, 
modestly speaking, as long as my whole face. We had, both of us, 
an opportunity of mending ourselves; and aU the contributions 
being now brought in, every man was at liberty to exchange his 
misfortunes for those of. another person. But as there arose many 
new incidents in the sequel of my vision, I shall reserve them for 
the subject of my next paper. 



In my last paper, I gave my reader a sight of that mountain 
of miseries, which was made up of those several calamities that 
afflict the minds of men. I saw, with unspeakable pleasure, the 
whole species thus delivered from its sorrow; though at the same 
time, as we stood round the heap, and surveyed the several ma- 
terials of which it was composed, there was scarcely a mortal, in 
this vast multitude, who did not discover what he thought pleasures 
of life ; and wondered how the owners of them ever came to look 
upon them as burdens and grievances. 

As we were regarding very attentively this confusion of miser- 
ies, this chaos of calamity, Jupiter issued out a second proclama- 
tion, that every one was now at hberty to exchange his afflic- 
tion, and to return to his habitation with any such other bundle as 
should be delivered to him. 

Upon this, Fancy began again to bestir herself, and parceling 



OUR BURDEN'S. 17^ 



out the whole heap with incredible activity, recommended to every 
one his particular packet. The hurry and confusion at this time 
were not to be expressed. Some observations which I made upon 
this occasion I shall communicate to the pubhc. A venerable, gray- 
headed man, who had laid down the cohc, and who I found wanted 
an heir to his estate, snatched up an un dutiful son, that had been 
thrown into the heap by an angry father. The graceless youth, in 
less than a quarter of an hour, pulled the old gentleman by the 
beard, and had hke to have knocked his brains out; so that meet- 
ing the tnie father, who came toward him with a fit of the gripes, 
he begged him to take his son again, and give him back his colic; 
but they were incapable either of them to recede from the choice they 
had made. A poor galley slave who had thrown down his chains, 
took up the gout in their stead, but made such wry faces, that one 
might easily perceive he was no great gainer by the bargain. It 
was pleasant enough to see the several exchanges that were made, 
for sickness against poverty, hunger against want of appetite, and 
care against pain. 

The female world were very busy among themselves in barter- 
ing for features ; one was trucking a lock of gray hairs for a car- 
buncle ; another was making over a short waist for a pair of round 
shoulders ; and a third cheapening a bad face for a lost reputation ; 
but on aU these occasions, there was not one of them who did not 
think the new blemish, as soon as she had got it into her j)osses- 
sion, much more disagreeable than the old one. I made the same 
observation on every other misfortune or calamity, which every one 
in "the assembly brought upon himself, in Heu of what he had 
parted with ; whether it be that all the evils which befall us are in 
some measure suited and proportioned to our strength, or that every 
evil becomes more supportable by our being accustomed to it, I 
shall not determine. 

I could not for my heart forbear pitying the poor humpbacked 
gentleman, mentioned in the former paper, who went off a very 
well-shaped person with a stone in his bladder; nor the fine gentle- 
man who had struck up his bargain with him, that limped through 



176 LEIStTKE HOURS., 



a whole assembly of ladies who used to admire him, with a imii of 
shoulders peeping over his head. 

I must not omit my own particular adventure. My friend 
with the long visage had no sooner taken upon him my short face, 
but he made so grotesque a figure, that as I looked upon him I 
could not forbear laughing at myself, insomuch that I put my own 
face out of countenance. The poor gentleman was so sensible of 
the ridicule, that I found he was ashamed of what he had done; on 
the other side, I found that I myself had no great reason to tri- 
umph, for as I went to touch my forehead I missed the place, and 
clapped my finger upon my upper lip. Besides, as my nose was 
exceedingly prominent, I gave it two or three unlucky knocks as I 
was playing my hand about my face, and aimmg at some other 
part of it. I saw two other gentleinen by me, who were in the 
same ridiculous circumstances. These had made a foolish exchange 
between a couple of thick bandy legs, and two long trap sticks that 
had no calves to them. One of these looked like a man walking 
upon stilts, and was so lifted up into the air, above his ordinary 
height, that his head turned round with it; while the other made 
so awkward circles, as he attempted to walk, that he scarcely knew 
how to move forward upon his new supporters. Observing him to 
be a pleasant kind of fellow, I stuck my cane in the ground, and 
told him I would lay him a bottle of wine, that he did not march 
up to it, on a hne that I drew for him, in a quarter of an hour. 

The heap was at last distributed among the two sexes, who 
made a most piteous sight, as they wandered up and down under 
the pressure of their several burdens. The whole plain was filled 
with murmurs and complaints, groans and lamentations. Jupiter, 
at length, taking compassion on the poor mortals, ordered them a 
second time to lay down their loads, with a design to give every one 
his own again. They discharged themselves with a great deal of 
pleasure ; after which, the phantom who had led them into such gross 
delusions, was commanded to disappear. There was sent in her 
stead a goddess of a quite different figure ; her motions were steady 
and composed, and her aspect serious but cheerful. She every now 



IK THE GARRET. I77 



and then cast her eyes toward heaven, and fixed them upon Jupiter; 
her name was Patience. She had no sooner placed herself by the 
Mount of Sorrows, but, what I thought very remarkable, the whole 
heap sunk to such a degree, that it did not appear a third part so 
big as it was before. She afterward returned every man his own 
proper calamity, and, teaching him how to bear it in the most com- 
modious manner, he marched off with it contentedly, being very 
well pleased that he had not been left to his own choice, as to the 
kind of evils which fell to his lot. 

Besides the several pieces of morahty to be drawn out of this 
vision, I learned from it never to repine at my own misfortunes, or 
fco envy the happiness of another, since it is impossible for any 
man to form a right judgment of his neighbor's sufl'erings; for 
which reason also, I have determined never to tliink too lightly of 
another's complaints, but to regard the sorrows of my fellow-creat- 
ures with sentiments of humanity and compassion. 



In the Garret. 

Sarcastic people are wont to say that poets dwell in garrets, 
and simple people beheve it. And others, neither sarcastic nor 
simple, send them up aloft, among the rubbish, just because they 
do not know what to do "with them downstairs, and "among folks," 
and so they class them under the head of rubbish, and consign 
them to the grand receptacle of dilapidated "has been's" and de- 
spised "used to he's" — the old garret. 

The garret is to the other apartments of the old homestead 
what the adverb is to the pedagogue in parsing; everything they 
do not know how to dispose of is consigned to the list of adverbs. 
And it is for this precise reason that we love garrets; because they 
do contain the rehcs of the old and the past — remembrances of 
other and happier and simpler times. They have come to build 
houses nowadays without garrets. Impious innovation 1 



178 LEISUEE HOfKS. 



You man of bronze and "bearded like the pard," who would 
make people believe, if you could, that you never were a "toddhn' 
wee thing;" that you never' wore a "ruffle-dress," or jingled a rat- 
tle-box with infinite dehght ; that you never had a mother, and that 
she never became an old woman, and wore caps and spectacles, 
and, maybe, took snuff; go home once more, after all these years 
of absence, all booted and whiskered, and six feet high as you are, 
and let us go up the stairs together — in that old-fashioned, 
spacious garret, that extends from gable to gable, Avith its narrow 
old windows, with a spider-web of a sash, through which steals 
"a dim religious light" upon a museum of things unnamable, that 
once figured below stairs, but were long since crowded out by the 
Vandal hand of these modern times. 

The loose boards of the floor rattle somewhat as they used to 
do — don't they? — -when beneath your httle pattering feet they clat- 
tered aforetime, when, of a rainy day, "mother," wearied with 
many-tongaed importunity, granted the "Let us go up in the garret 
and play." And play! Precious little of "play" have you had 
since, we'll warrant, with your looks of dignity, and your dream- 
ings of ambition. 

Here we are now in the midst of the garret. The old barrel 
—shall we rummage it? Old files of newspapers — dusty, yellow, a 
Httle tattered! 'Tis the "Columbian Star." How famihar with the 
"Letters or papers for father?" And these same Stars, just damp 
from the press, were carried one by one from the fireside, and pe- 
rused and preserved as they ought to be. Stars? Damp? many 
a star has set since then, and many a new-tufted heap grown dewy 
and damp with rain that fell not from the clouds. 

Dive deeper into the barrel. There! A bundle, up it comes, 
in a cloud of dust. Old almanacs, by all that is memorable ! Al- 
manacs ! thin-leaved ledgers of time, going back to — ^let us see how 
far; 184-, 183-, 182-, — before our time — 180-, when our mothers 
were children. And the day-book — ^how blotted and blurred with 
many records and many tears I 

There, you have hit your head against that beam. Time was 



IN THE GARRET. 179 



when you ran to and fro beneath it, but you are nearer to it now, 
, by more than the "altitude of a copine." The beam is strewn with 
forgotten papers of seeds for the next year's sowing; a distaff, with 
some few shreds of flax remaining, is thrust in a crevice of the 
rafters overhead; and tucked away close under the eaves is "the 
little wheel" that used to stand by the fire in times long gone. Its 
sweet low song has ceased ; and perhaps — perhaps she who drew 
those flaxen threads — but never mind — you remember the hne, 
don't you? — 

"Her wheel at rest, the matron charms no more." 

Well, let that pass. Do you see that httle craft careened in 
that dark corner? It was red once; it was the only casket within 
the house once; and contained a mother's jewels. The old red 
cradle, for all the world ! And you occupied it once ; ay, great as 
you are, it was your world once, and over it, the only horizon you 
beheld, bent the heaven of a mother's eyes, as you rocked in that 
little bark of love on the hither shore of time — fast by a mother's 
love to a mother's heai-t. 

And there, attached to two rafters, are the fragments of an 
untwisted rope. Do you remember it, and what it was for, and 
who fastened it there? 'Twas "the children's swing." You are 
here, indeed, but where are Nelly and Charley! There hangs his 
little cap by the window, and there the little red frock she used to 
wear. A crown is resting on his cherub brow, and her robes are 



spotless in the better land. 




180 LEISURE HOURS. 



The Grave. 

Oh, the grave ! the grave ! It buries every error, covers every 
defect, extinguishes every resentment. From its peaceful bosom 
spring none but fond regrets and tender recollections. Who can 
look down upon the grave even of an enemy, and not feel a com- 
punctious throb that he should ever have warred with the poor 
handful of earth that hes moldering before him? But the grave 
of those we loved, — what a place for meditation ! There it is we 
call up, in long review, the whole history of virtue and gentleness, 
and the thousand endearments lavished upon us, almost unheeded, 
in the daily intercourse of intimacy ; there it is that we dwell upon 
the tenderness, the solemn, awful tenderness of the parting scene; 
the bed of death, with aU its stifled griefs, its noiseless attendants, 
its mute, watchful assiduities ; the last testimonies of expiring love ; 
the feeble, fluttering, thrilling — oh, how thrilling ! — pressure of the 
hand ; the faint, faltering accents strugghng in death to give one 
more assurance of affection; the last fond look of the glazing eye, 
turned upon us even from the threshold of existence ! Aye, go to 
the grave of buried love and meditate ! There settle the account 
with thy conscience for every past benefit unrequited, every past 
endearment unregarded, of that departed being who can never, 
never, never return, to be soothed by thy contrition. 

If thou art a child, and hast ever added a sorrow to the soul, 
or a furrow to the silvered brow of an affectionate parent, if thou 
art a husband, and hast ever caused the fond bosom that ventured 
its whole happiness in thy arms to doubt one moment of thy kind- 
ness or thy truth, if thou art a friend, and hast ever wronged in 
thought, or word, or deed, the spirit that generously confided in thee, 
if thou art a lover, and hast ever given one unmerited pang to that 
true heart which now lies cold and still beneath thy feet, then be 
sure that every unkind look, every ungracious word, every ungentle 



CHEISTIANITY. 183 



action, wiU come thronging back upon thy memory, and knocking 
dolefully at thy soul; then be sure that thou wilt he down, sor- 
rowing and repentant on the grave, and utter the unheard groan, 
and pour the unavailing tear, more deep, more bitter because 



unheard and imavailing. 



Christianity. 

Taken from a speech of Charles Phillips, the Irish orator, delivered at Cheltenham 
England, on the 7th of October, 1819, at the fourth anniversary of the Gloucester 
Missionary Society. 

When I consider the source fi-om whence Christianity springs 
— the humility of its origin — the poverty of its disciples — the mira- 
cles of its creation — the mighty sway it has acquired not only over 
the civilized world, but which your missions are hourly extending 
over lawless, mindless, and imbruted regions — I own the awful 
presence of the Godhead — nothing less than a Divinity could have 
done it! The powers, the prejudices, the superstitions of the earth 
were aU in arms against it; it had nor sword nor sceptre — its foun- 
der was in rags — its apostles were lowly fishermen — its inspired 
prophets, lowly and uneducated — its cradle was a manger — its home 
a dungeon — its earthly diadem a crown of thorns ! And yet, forth 
it went — that lowly, humble, persecuted spirit — and the idols of the 
heathen feU; and the thrones of the mighty trembled; and pagan- 
ism saw her peasants and her princes kneel down and worship the 
unarmed Conqueror ! If this be not the work of the Divinity, then 
I yield to the reptile ambition of the atheist. I see no God above 
— I see no government below, and I yield my consciousness of an 
immortal soul to his boasted fraternity with the worm that perishes ! 
But, sir, even when I thus concede to him the divine origin of our 
Christian faith, I arrest him upon worldly principles — I desire him 



184 LEISUEE HOURS., 



to produce, from all the -wisdom of the earth, so pure a system of 
practical morahty — a code of ethics m.ore subHme in its conception — 
more simple in its means — more happy and more powerfnl in its 
operation; and, if he cannot do so, I then say to him, Oh! in the 
name of your own darhng policy filch not its guide from youth, its 
shield from manhood, and its crutch from age ! Though the light 
I follow may lead me astray, still I think it is light from Heaven ! 
The good, and great, and wise, are my companions — my dehghtful 
hope is harmless, if not holy; and wake me not to a disappointment, 
which in your tomb of annihilation, I shall not taste hereafter! 

The following extract we take from Mr. Phillip's speech delivered at the annual 
meeting of the British and Foreign Auxiliary Society, London. 

My Lord, I will abide by the precepts, admire the beauty. 
revere the mysteries, and as far as in me lies, practice the man- 
dates of this sacred volume; and should the ridicule of earth, and 
the blasphemy of hell assail me, I shall console myself by the con- 
templation of those blessed spirits, who, in the same holy cause, 
have toiled, and shone, and suffered. In the " goodly fellowship of 
the saints" — in the "noble army of the martyrs" — in the society of 
the great, and good, and wise of every nation, if my sinfulness be 
not cleansed, and my darkness illuminated, at least my pretension- 
less submission may be excused. If I err with the luminaries I 
have chosen for my guides, I confess myself captivated by the love- 
hness of their aberrations. If they err it is in an heavenly region; 
if they wander, it is in fields of light ; if they aspire, it is at aU 
events a glorious daring ; and rather than sink with infidehty into 
the (^ust,'I am content to cheat myself with their vision of eternity. 
It may, indeed, be nothing but delusion, but then I err with the 
disciples of philosophy and of ^drtue — with men who have drank 
deep at the fountain of human knowledge, but who dissolved not 
the pearl of their salvation in the draught. I err with Bacon, the 
great Bacon, the great confidant of nature, fraught with all the 
learning of the past, and almost prescient of the future ; yet too wise 
not to know his weakness, and too philosophic not to feel his igno- 



ELEONORA. 185 



ranee. I err with Milton, rising on an angel's wings to heaven, 
and like the bird of morn, soaring out of light, amid the music of 
his grateful piety. I err with Locke, whose pure philosophy only 
taught him to adore its source, whose warm love of genuine hberty 
was never chilled into rebeUion with its author. I err with Newton, 
whose star-like spirit shooting athwai-t the darkness of the sphere, 
too soon to re-ascend to the home of his nativity. With men hke 
these, my lord, I shall remain in error. * * * 

Holding opinions such as these, I should consider myself cul- 
pable, if, at such a crisis, I did not declare them. A lover of my 
country, I yet draw a hne between patriotism and rebellion. A 
warm friend of liberty of conscience, I will not confound toleration 
with infidehty. With all its ambiguity, I shall die in the doctrines 
of the Christian faith; and, with aU its errors, I am contented to 
hve under the safeguards of the British Constitution. 



Eleonora. 



I am come of a race noted for vigor of fancy and ardor of 
passion. Men have caUed me mad, but the question is not yet 
settled whether madness is or is not the loftiest intelhgence — whether 
much that is glorious — whether all that is profound— ^-does not spring 
from disease of thought, from moods of mind exalted at the expense 
of the general intellect. They who dream by day are cognizant of 
many things which escape those who dream only by night. In 
their gray visions they obtain ghmpses of eternity, and thrill, in 
waking, to find that they have been upon the verge of the great secret. 
In snatches, they learn something of the wisdom which is of good, 
and more of the mere knowledge which is of evO. They penetrate, 
however rudderless or compassless, into the vast ocean of the "hght 
ineffable;" and again, Ukethe adventures of the Nubian geographer, 
agressi sunt mare tenebrarum quid in eo esset exploraturi. We "will 



186 LEISUEE HOUES. 



say, then, that I am mad. I grant, at least,that there are two dis- 
tinct conditions of my mental existence — the condition of a lucid 
reason, not to he disputed, and belonging to the memory of events 
forming the first epoch of my hfe — and a condition of shadow and 
doubt, appertaining to the present, and to the recollection of what 
constitutes the second great era of my being. Therefore, what I 
shall tell of the earlier period, believe ; and to what I may relate of 
the later time, give only such credit as may seem due, or doubt it 
altogether; or if doubt it ye cannot, then play unto its riddle the 
(Edipus. 

She whom I loved in youth, and of whom I now pen calmly 
and distinctly these remembrances, was the sole daughter of the 
only sister of my mother long departed. Eleonora was the name 
of my cousin. We had always dwelled together, beneath a tropical 
sunj in the Valley of the Many- Colored Grass. No unguided foot- 
step ever came upon that vale ; for it lay far away up among a 
range of giant hills that hung beetling around about it, shutting out 
the sunlight from its sweetest recesses. No path was trodden in its 
vicinity; and to reach our happy home, there was need of putting 
back, with force, the foliage of many thousands of forest trees, and 
of crushing to death the glories of many millions of fragrant flowers. 
Thus it was that we lived all alone, knowing nothing of the world 
without the valley, — I, and my cousin, and her mother. 

From the dim regions beyond the mountains at the upper end 
of our encircled domain, there crept out a narrow and deep river, 
brighter than all save the eyes of Eleonora; and, winding stealthily 
about in mazy courses, it passed away, at length, through a shad- 
owy gorge, among hills still dimmer than those whence it had issued. 
We called it the "River of Silence ;" for there seemed to be a hush- 
ing influence in its flow. No murmur arose from its bed, and so 
gently it wandered along, that the pearly pebbles upon which we loved 
to gaze, far down within its bosom, stirred not at all, but lay in a 
motionless content, each in its own old station, shining on gloriously 
forever. 

The margin of the river, and of the many dazzling riyuletg 

14 



ELEONOEA. 



1S7 



that glided througli devious ways into its channel, as well as the 
spaces that extended from the margins away down into the depths 
of the streams until they reached the bed of pebbles at the bottom, — 
these spots, not less than the whole surface of the valley, from the 
river to the mountains that girdled it in, were cai"peted all by a soft 
green grass, thick, short, perfectly even, and vanilla perfumed, but 
so besprinkled throughout with the yellow buttercup, the white 
daisy, the pui-ple violet, and the ruby-red asphodel, that its exceed- 
ing beauty spoke to our hearts in loud tones, of the love and of the 
glory of God. 

And, here and there, in groves about this grass, like wilder- 
nesses of dreams, sprang up fantastic trees, whose tall, slender 
stems stood not upright, but slanted gracefully toward the light 
that peered at noon-day into the center of the valley. Their bark 
was speckled with the vivid alternate splendor of ebony and silver, 
and was smoother than all save the cheeks of Eleonora; so, that 
but for the briUiant green of the huge leaves that spread from their 
summits in long, tremulous hues, dallying with the zephyrs, one 
might have fancied them giant sei-pents of Syria doing homage to 
their sovereign, the sun. 

Hand in hand about this valley, for fifteen years, roamed I 
with Eleonora before Love entered within our hearts. It was one 
evening at the close of the third lustrum of her life, and of the 
fourth of my own, that we sat, locked in each other's embrace, be- 
neath the serpent-like trees, and looked down within the waters of 
the Kiver of Silence at our images therein. We spoke no words 
during the rest of that sweet day, and our words even upon the 
morrow were tremulous and few. We had drawn the god Eros 
from that wave, and now we felt that he had enkindled within us 
the fiery souls of our forefathers. The passions which had for 
centuries distinguished our race came thronging with the fancies 
for which they had equally noted and together breathed a delirious 
bhss over the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. A change feU 
upon all things. Strange, brilliant flowers, star-shaped, burst out 
upon the trees where no flowers had been known before. The tints 



188 LEISURE HOURS. 



of the green carpet deepened; and when, one by one, the white 
daisies shrank away, there sprang up in place of them ten by ten 
of the ruby-red asphodel, and Hfe arose in our paths; for the tall 
flamingo, hitherto unseen, with all gay glowing birds, flaunted his 
scarlet plumage before us. The golden and silver fish haunted the 
river, out of the bosom of which issued, little by httle, a murmur 
that swelled, at length, into a lulling melody more divine than that 
of the harp of ^olus — sweeter than all save the voice of Eleonora. 
And now, too, a voluminous cloud, which we had long watched in 
the regions of Hesper, floated out thence, aU gorgeous in crimson 
and gold, and settling in peace above us, sank, day by day, lower 
and lower, until its edges rested upon the tops of the mountains, 
turning aU their dimness into magnificence, and shutting us up, 
as if forever, within a magic prison-house of grandeur and of glory. 

The loveliness of Eleonora was that of the Seraphim ; but she 
was a maiden artless and innocent as the brief life she had led among 
the flowers. No guile disguised the fervor of love which animated 
her heart, and she examined with me its inmost recesses as we 
walked together in the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass, and dis- 
coursed of the mighty changes which had lately taken place therein. 

At length, having spoken one day, in tears, of the last, sad 
change which must befaU Humanity, she thenceforward dwelt only 
upon this one sorrowful theme, interweaving it into all our converse, 
as, in the songs of the bard of Schiraz the same images are found 
occurring, again and again, in every impressive variation of phrase. 

She had seen that the finger of Death was upon her bosom — 
that, like the ephemeron, she had been made perfect in lovehness 
only to die; but the terrors of the grave, to her, lay solely in a con- 
sideration which she revealed to me, one evening at twilight, by the 
banks of the Kiver of Silence. She grieved to think that, having 
entombed her in the VaUey of the Many- Colored Grass, I would 
quit forever its happy recesses, transferring the love which now was 
so passionately her own to some maiden of the outer and every-day 
world. And, then and there, I threw myself hurriedly at the feet 
of Eleonora, and offered up a vow to herself and to Heaven, that 



ELEONORA. 189 



I would never bind myself in marriage to any daughter of Earth — 
that I would in no manner prove recreant to her dear memory, or 
to the memory of the devout affection with which she blessed me. 
And I called the Mighty Euler of the Universe to witness the pious 
solemnity of my vow. And the curse which I invoked of Him and 
of her, a saint in Helusion, should 1 prove traitorous to that prom- 
ise, involved a penalty the exceeding great horror of which will not 
permit me to make a record of it here. And the bright eyes of 
Eleonora grew brighter at my words ; and she sighed as if a deadly 
burthen had been taken from her breast, and she trembled and very 
bitterly wept ; but she made acceptance of the vow, (for what was she 
but a child ?) and it made easy to her the bed of her death. And 
she said to me, not many days afterward, tranquilly dying, that, be- 
cause of what I had done for the comfort of her spirit, she would 
watch over me in that spirit when departed, and, if so it were per- 
mitted her, return to me visibly in the watches of the night; but, 
if this thing were, indeed, beyond the power of the souls in Para- 
dise, that she would, at least, give me frequent indications of her 
presence; sighing upon me in the evening Avinds, or fiUing the air 
which I breathed with perfume from the censers of the angels. 
And, with these words upon her hps, she yielded up her innocent 
hfe, putting an end to the first epoch of my own. 

Thus far I have faithfully said. But as I pass the barrier in 
Time's path, formed by the death of my beloved, and jproceed with 
the second era of my existence, I feel that a shadow gathers over 
my brain, and I mistrust the perfect sanity of the record. But let 
me on. Years dragged themselves along heavily and still I dwelled 
within the VaUey of the Many-Colored Grass; but a second change 
had come upon all things. The star-shaped flowers shrank into 
the stems of the trees, and appeared no more. The tints of the 
green carpet faded, and one by one ruby-red asphodels withered 
away; and there sprang up, in place of them, ten by ten, dark, 
eye-hke violets, that writhed uneasily and were ever encumbered 
with dew. And Life departed from our paths ; for the tall flamingo 
flaunted no longer his scarlet plumage before us, but flew sadly 



J^O liMSUIlE HOURS. 



from the vale into the hills, with all the gay glowing birds that 
had arrived in his company. And the golden and silver fish 
swam down through the gorge at the lower end of our domain, 
and bedecked the sweet river never again. And the lulling mel- 
ody that had been softer than the wind-harp of iEolus, and 
more divine than all save the voice of Eleonora, it died little by 
little away, in murmurs growing lower and lower, until the stream 
returned at length utterly into the solemnity of its original silence. 
And then, lastly, the voluminous cloud uprose, and, abandoning 
the tops of the mountains to the dimness of old, fell back into the 
regions of Hesper, and took away all its manifold golden and gor- 
geous glories from the Valley of the Many-Colored Grass. 

Yet the promises of Eleonora were not forgotten ; for I heard 
the sounds of the swinging of the censers of the angels ; and streams 
of a holy perfume floated ever and ever about the valley ; and at 
lone hours, when my heart beat heavily, the winds that bathed 
my brow came unto me laden with soft sighs; and indistinct 
murmurs fiUed of ten the night air ; and once — oh, but once only! 
I was awakened from a slumber, like the slumber of death, by the 
pressing of spiritual lips upon my own. 

But the void within my heart refused, even then, to be filled. 
I longed for the love which had before filled it to overflowing. At 
length the valley pained me through its memories of Eleonora, and 
I left it forever for the vanities and the turbulent triumphs of the 
world. 

^ ^ -^ ^ ^ ^ '^ ^ ii^ 

I found myself within a strange city, where all things might 
have served to blot from recollection the sweet dreams I had 
dreamed so long in the Valley of the Many Colored Grass. The 
pomps and pageantries of a stately court, and the mad clangor of 
arms, and the radiant loveliness of woman, bewildered and intoxi- 
cated my brain. But as yet my soul had proved true to its vows, 
and the indications of the presence of Eleonora were still given me 
in the silent hours of the night. Suddenly, these manifestations 
ceased; and the world grew dark before mine eyes; and I stood 



ELEONOEA. 



191 



aghast at the burning thoughts which possessed — at the terrible 
temptations which beset me; for there came fi'om some far, far 
distant and unknown land, into the gay court of the king I served, 
a maiden to whose beauty my whole recreant heart yielded at once 
— at whose footstool I bowed down without a struggle, in the 
most ardent, in the most abject worship of love. What, in- 
deed, was my passion for the young girl of the valley in compari- 
son with the fervor, and the dehrium, and the spirit-lifting ecstacy 
of adoration with which I poured out my whole soul in tears at the 
feet of the ethereal Ermengarde? Oh, bright was the seraph 
Ermengarde ! and in that knowledge I had room for none other. 
Oh, divine was the angel Ermengarde ! and as I looked down iuto 
the depths Of her memorial eyes, I thought only of them — and of 
her I wedded ; nor dreaded the curse I had invoked ; and its bitter- 
ness Avas not visited upon me. And once — but once again in the 
sUence of the night, there came through my lattice the soft sighs 
which had forsaken me ; and they modeled themselves into famil- 
iar and sweet voice, saying: 

" Sleep in peace ! — for the Spirit of Love reigneth and ruleth, 
and in taking to thy passionate heart her who is Ermengarde, thou 
art absolved, for reasons which shaU be made known to thee in 
Heaven, of thy vows unto Eleonora." 




192 LEISUKE HOURS. 



A Paradise on Earth, 

OR, 

The Blind Bishop and His Sister. 

[The following charming selection is taken from Les Miserables. It is written 
in remembrance of a blind bishop who died in 1821, at the age of eighty-two. He 
had been prominent in the affairs of his country, and in his old age was satisfied to 
be blind, as his sister was by his side.] 

Let us say, parenthetically, that to be blind and to be loved, is 
one of the most strangely exquisite forms of happiness upon this 
earth, where nothing is perfect. To have continually at your side 
a wife, a sister or a daughter, a charming being, who is there 
because you have need of her, and because she cannot do without 
you ; to know yourself indispensable to a woman who is necessary 
to you; to be able constantly to gauge her affection by the amount 
of her presence which she gives you, and to say to yourself: "She 
devotes all her time to me because I possess her entire heart;" to 
see her thoughts in default of her face ; to prove the fidehty of a 
being in the echpse of the world; to catch the rusthng of a dress 
like the sound of wings; to hear her come and go, leave the room, 
return, talk, sing, and then to dream that you are the center of 
those steps, those words, those songs; to manifest at every moment 
your own attraction, and to feel yourself powerful in proportion to 
your weakness ; to become in darkness and through darkness the 
planet round which this angel gravitates — but few felicities equal 
this. The supreme happiness of hfe is the conviction of being 
loved for yourself, or more correctly speaking, loved in spite of 
yourself; and this conviction the bhnd man has. In this distress 
to be served is to be caressed. Does he want for anything? No. 
"When you possess love, you have not lost the Hght. And what a 
love ! a love entirely made of virtues. There is no bhndness where 
there is certainty; the groping soul seeks a soul and finds it, and 



NAPOLEON BUONAPARTE. 193 

this fond and tried soul is woman, A hand siij)ports you, it is hers ; 
a mouth touches your forehead, it is hers ; you hear a breathing 
close to you, it is she. 

To have everything she has, from her Avorship to her pity, to 
be never left, to have this gentle weakness to succor you, to lean 
on this unbending reed, to touch providence with her hands, and 
be able to take her in your arms — oh ! what rapture this is ! The 
heart, that obscure celestial flower, begins to expand mysteriously, 
and you would not exchange this shadow for all the light ! The 
angel soul is thus necessarily there ; if she go away, it is to return ; 
she disappears hke a dream, and reappears like a reahty. You feel 
heat approaching you, it is she. You overflow with serenity, 
ecstacy, and gayety; you are a sunbeam in the night. And then 
the thousand httle attentions, the nothings which are so enormous 
in this vacuum ! The most ineffable accents of the human voice 
employed to lifllyou, and taking the place of the vanished universe! 
You are caressed with the soul ; you see nothing, but you feel your- 
self adored; it is a paradise of darkness. 



Napoleon Buonaparte 

[The selection given below occurs in a conversation between two Frenclimen. 
One, a Republican, holds up his country by saying, "France requires no Corsica to be 
great. France is great because she is France." The other, one of "The Old Guard," 
with a strangely tremulous voice, produced by his internal emotion, answers, 
"Heaven forbid that I should diminish France; but it is not diminishing her to amal- 
gamate Napoleon with her. "J 

Come, let us talk. I am a new-comer among you, but I con- 
fess that you astonisli me. * * * * j fancied you young 
men, but where do you keep your enthusiasm, and what do you do 
with it? Whom do you admire, if it is not the Emperor, and 
what more do you want? If you will not have that great man, 
what great man would you have? 



194 



LEISURE HOUES. 



He had everything, be was complete, and in liis brain was the 
cube of human faculties. He made codes like Justinian, and dic- 
tated like Caesar ; his conversation blended the hghtning of Pascal 
with the thunder of Tacitus ; he made history and wrote it, and 
his bulletins are IHads ; he combined the figures of Newton with 
the metaphor of Mahomet. 

He left behind him in the east worlds great as the pyramids, 
at Tilsit he taught majesty to emperors, at the Academy of Science 
he answered Laplace, at the Council of State he held his own 
against Merlin, he gave a soul to the geometry of one and to the 
sophistry of others, for he was a legist with the lawyers, a sidereal 
with the a.stronomers. Like CromweU, blowing out one of two 
candles, he went to the temple to bargain for a curtain tassel; he 
saw everything, knew everything, but that did not prevent him 
from laughing heartily by the cradle of his new-born son. And, all 
at once, startled Europe listened, armies set out, parks of artillery 
roUed along, bridges of boats were thrown over rivers, clouds of 
cavalry galloped in the hurricane, and shouts, bugles, and crashing 
of thrones could be heard all around. The frontiers of kingdoms 
oscillated on the map, the sound of a superhuman sword being 
drawn from its scabbard could be heard, and he was seen, standing 
erect on the horizon, with a gleam in his hand, and a splendor in 
his eye, opening in the thunder of his two wings, the Grand Army 
and the Old Guard. He was the archangel of war. 

Let us be just, my friends ! What a splendid destiny it is for 
a people to be the empire of such an emperor, when that people is 
France and adds its genius to the genius of that man. To appear 
and reign; to march and triumph; to have as bivouacs every 
capital; to select grenadiers and make kings of them; to decree 
the downfall of dynasties ; to transfigure Europe at double quick 
steps; to feel when you threaten that you lay your hand on the 
SAVord-hilt of God; to foUow in one man Hannibal, Caesar, and 
Charlemagne ; to be the people of a ruler who accompanies your 
every day-break with the briUiant announcement of a battle gained ; 
to be aroused in the morning by the guns of the Invahdes; to cast 



A HEABT BENEATH A KTONE. 195 

into the abysses of light prodigious words which are eternally lum- 
inous — Marengo, Areola, Austerhtz, Jena, and Wagram! — to pro- 
duce at each moment on the zenith of centuries constellations of 
victories ; to make the French Emperor a pendant of the Eoman 
Empire; to be the great nation, and give birth to the great army; 
to send legions all over the world, as the mountain sends its eagles 
in aU directions to conquer, rule, and crush; to be in Europe a 
people gilt by glory; to sound a Titanic flourish of trumpets 
through history; to conquer the world twice, by conquest and by 
amazement — all this is subhme. 



A Heart Beneath, a Stone. 

[The sentiments -which we copy here are extremely beautiful. A Frenchman, who 
by his political opinions was obliged to live in secret, communicated with his lady 
by leaving a letter beneath a stone. The rest is fully explained in the following :J 

She raised the stone, which was of some size, and there was- 
something under it that resembled a letter; it was an envelope of 
white paper. Cosette seized it; there was no address on it, and it 
was not sealed up. StiU the envelope, though open, was not empty, 
for papers could be seen inside. Cosette no longer suffered from 
terror, nor was it curiosity : it was a commencement of anxiety. 
Cosette took out a small quire of paper, each page of which was 
numbered, and bore several lines written in a very nice and dehcate 
hand, so Cosette thought. She looked for a name, but there was 
none; for a signature, but there was none, either. For whom was 
the packet intended? probably for herself, as a hand had laid it 
on the bench. From whom did it come? An irresistible fascin- 
ation seized upon her. She tried to turn her eyes away from 
these pages, which trembled in her hand. She looked at the sky, 
the street, the acacias aU bathed in hght, the pigeons circhng 
round an adjoining roof, and then her eyes settled on the manu- 



196 LEISURE HOURS. 



script, and she said to herself that she must know what was 
inside it. This is what she read : 

The reduction of the universe to a single heing, the dilation of 
a single heing as far as God, such is love. 

Love is the salutation of the angels to the stars. 



How sad is the soul when it is sad through love ! What a void 
is the absence of the being, who of her own self fiUs the world. 
Oh! how true it is that the beloved being becomes God! We 
might understand how God might be jealous of her, had not the 
Father of aU evidently made creation for the soul, and the soul for 
love. 

God is behind everything, but everything conceals God. 
Things are black and creatures are opaque, but to love a being is 
to render her transparent. 



Certain thoughts are prayers. There are moments when the 
soul is kneehng, no matter what the attitude of the body may be. 



love,* adoration ! voluptuousness of two minds which com- 
prehend each other, of two hearts which are exchanged, of two 
glances which penetrate one another. You will come to me, 
happiness, will you not? Walks with her in the solitudes, blest, 
and radiant days ! I have dreamed that from time to time hours 
were detached from the lives of angels, and came down here to 
traverse the destinies of men. 



God can add nothing to the happiness of those who love, 
except giving them endless duration. After a life of love, an eter- 
nity of love is in truth an augmentation ; but it is impossible even 
for God to increase in its intensity the ineffable felicity which love 
gives to the soul in this world. God is the fullness of heaven, love 
is the fullness of man. 



A HEAKT BENEATH A STONE. 197 

You gaze at a star for two motives : because it is luminous and 
because it is impenetrable. You have by your side a sweeter radi- 
ance and greater mystery — woman. 



When love has blended and molded two beings in an angeHc 
and sacred union, they have found the secret of hfe; henceforth 
they are only the two terms of the same destiny, the two wings of 
one mind. Love and soar! 



If you are a stone, be a magnet; if you are a plant, be sensi- 
tive; if you are a man, be love. 

Love is the celestial breathing of the atmosphere of paradise. 



I have met in the street a very poor young man who was in 
love. His hat was old, his coat worn, his coat was out at elbows, 
the water passed through his shoes, and the stars through his soul. 



What a grand thing it is to be loved ! What a grander thing 
still to love! The heart becomes heroic by the might of passion. 
Henceforth it is composed of nought but what is pure, and is only 
supported by what is elevated and great. An unworthy thought 
can no more germinate in it than a nettle on a glacier. The lofty 
and serene soul, inaccessible to emotions and vulgar passions, soar- 
ing above the clouds and shadows of the world, foUies, falsehoods, 
hatreds, vanities, and miseries, dwells in the azure of the sky, and 
henceforth only feels the profound and subterranean heavings of 
destiny as the summit of the mountains feels earthquake's. 



If there were nobody who loved, the sun would be extinguished. 



198 LEISUEE HOURS. 



An Evening "Walk in Virginia. 

In truth, the httle, sohtary nook into which I am just now 
thrown, bears an aspect so interesting, that it is calculated to call 
up the most touchingly pleasing exertions in the minds of those 
who love to indulge in the contemplation of beautiful scenes. We 
are the sons of earth, and the indissoluble kindred between nat- 
ure and man is demonstrated by our sense of her beauties. I 
shall not soon forget last evening, which Ohver and myself spent 
at this place. It was such as ,can never be described, — I will 
therefore not attempt it ; but it was still as the sleep of innocence, 
pure as ether, and bright as immortality. Having traveled only 
fourteen miles that day, I did not feel as tired as usual, and, after 
supper, strolled out alone along the windings of a little stream 
about twenty yards wide, that skirts a narrow strip of green 
meadows, between the brook and the high mountain at a little dis- 
tance. 

You wiU confess my landscapes are well watered, for every 
one has a river. But such is the case in this region, where aU the 
passes of the mountains are made by little rivers, that in process 
of time have labored through, and left a space for a road on their 
banks. If nature will do these things, I can't help it, — not I, In 
the course of the ramble, the moon rose over the mountain to the 
eastward, which, being just by, seemed to bring the planet equally 
near; and the bright eyes of the stars began to gHsten, as if weep- 
ing the dews of evening. I knew not the name of one single star. 
But what of that? It is not necessary to be an astronomer to 
contemplate with subhme emotions the glories of the sky at night, 
and the countless wonders of the universe. 

These earthly godfathers of heaven's lights, 

That give a name to every fixed star. 
Have no more profit of their living nights, 

Than those that walk and wot not what they are. 



AN EVENING WALK IN VIRGINIA. 199 



Men may be too wise to wonder at anything, as they may be 
too ignorant to see anything without wondermg. 

There is reason, also, to beheve that astronomers may be 
sometimes so taken up with measuring the distance and magnitude 
of the stars, as to lose, in the intense minuteness of calculation, 
that noble expansion of feehng and intellect combined, which hfts 
from nature up to its great First Cause. As respects myself, 1 
know no more of the planets than the man in the moon. I only 
contemplate them as unapproachable, unextinguishable fires, ght- 
tering afar off, in those azure fields whose beauty and splendor 
have pointed them out as the abode of the Divinity; as such, they 
form bright Hnks in the chain of thought that leads directly to a 
contemplation of the Maker of heaven and earth. Nature is, in- 
deed, the only temple worthy of the Deity. There is a mute 
eloquence in her smile; a majestic severity in her frown; a divine 
charm in her harmony; a speechless energy in her silence; a voice 
in her thunders, that no reflecting being can resist. It is in such 
scenes and seasons, that the heart is deepest smitten with the 
power and goodness of Providence, and that the soul demonstrates 
its capacity for maintaining an existence independent of matter, 
by abstracting itself from the body, and expatiating alone in the 
boundless regions of the past and the future. 

As I continued stroUing forward, there gradually came a per- 
fect calm, — and even the aspen-tree whispered no more. But it 
was not the death-like calm of a Winter's night, when the north- 
west wind grows quiet, and the frosts begin in silence to forge fet- 
ters for the running brooks, and the gentle current of life that 
flows through the veins of the forest. The voice of man and beast 
was indeed unheard; but the river murmured, and the insects 
chirped in the mild Summer evening. There is something sepul- 
chral in the repose of a Winter night ; but in the genial seasons of 
the year, though the night is the emblem of repose, it is the repose 
of the couch, not of the tomb; nature still breathes in the buzz 
of insects, the whisperings of the forests, and the murmur of the 
running brooks. We know she will awake in the ni oruing, with 



'■^00 LEISURE SOURg. 



her smiles, lier bloom, her zephyrs, and warbling birds. "In such 
a night as this," if a man loves any human being in this wide 
world, he will find it out, for there wiU his thoughts first center. 
If he has in store any sweet, or bitter, or bitter-sweet recollections, 
which are lost in the bustle of the world, they will come without 
being called. If, in his boyish days he wrestled, and wrangled, 
and rambled with, yet loved, some chubby boy, he will remember 
the days of his childhood, its companions, cares, and pleasures. 
If, in his days of romance, he used to walk of evenings with some 
blue-eyed, musing, melancholy maid, whom the ever-rolling wave 
of life dashed away from him forever, he will recall her voice, her 
eye, and her form. If any heavy and severe disaster has fallen 
on his riper manhood, and turned the future into a gloomy and 
unpromising wilderness, he will feel it bitterly at such a time. Or, 
if it chance that he is grown an old man, and lived to see all that 
owned his blood, or shared his affections, stritck down to the earth 
like dead leaves in Autumn, in such a night he will caU their dear 
shades around, and wish himself a shadow. 




A WOMA^f•S FOREVER. 201 



A "Woman's ''Forever." 

Well, it's over, Nellie — it's over! Look in my face and see! 
If we lived our lives a thousand years, he'd never come back to me! 
We've quarrelled many a time before, but/twas only children's play — 
Now, I was tired, Nellie; I've thrown the burden away! 

I was tired of bonds, once gentle, that of late galled overmuch, 

So heavy he forged them round my heart — so I broke them with a 
touch. 

I was angry — he caUed me cruel and fickle — so let it rest; 

But the choice lay 'twixt him and freedom, and I loved my free- 
dom best. 

He was jealous of wind and sunlight, the child that I stooped to 

kiss ; 
He stood between me and Heaven, and darkened my life with his; 
He hated the rose in my bosom that another hand had given — 
He could have hated the angels, if I were among them in Heaven! 

He didn't mean to be selfish — he loved me too hard, I suppose; 
And love can be cruel as hate, Nell — ay, crueller, far, God knows ! 
So here's his ring in the casket — he wouldn't take again ; 
He said I'd broken his heart, Nell, and all his life was in vain ! 

Was it true, I wonder, poor fellow? I wish we had never met! 
Ah, little enough you know him, if you tell me he'll forget. 
He's the truest lover woman ever had or flung away; 
I know he'll love me, dying, just as he loves to-day! 

But he treated me like a child, Nell, and I'm a woman grown ! 
He wanted my heart for a plaything, all its world for his own; 
He said I was cold as granite, and hm love was too hot for me — 
I suppose it was true; God knows, Nell! but — it's over, so let it be! 



202 LEISURE HOURS. 



And I'm glad; it was far, far better for him, though it seemed un- 
kind; 

And Fm happier far without him — no, I shall never change my 
mind! 

If I'm crying it's just for — pity. Oh, Nell! as he went away 

He covered his face — I saw him! He hadn't a word to say. 

So all the folly is over, its sweetness and passion and pain — 

If we lived our lives a thousand years, he'd never come back 

again ; 
For this is the final parting; the others were children's play, 
But this is the end of it all, Nell — forever and a day! 

Well, how could I help it, tell me, if he was stronger than I? 
'Twas always so hard to resist him — I grew too w6ary to try; 
And, you see, I spent all my strength in raising the last high wall 
To shut out his life from mine; but he came in spite of it all! 

Of course I mean to be cruel, but not to myself you know; 
And, somehow, I never knew before that I cared for the darling so; 
He's a fo lish fellow! Well Nellie, I'm foolish myself, I find; 
But you needn't laugh. After all, dear, I never fZscZ "change my 
mind!" 

Down in my heart I was crying all the while to have him again ; 
I tried to live without him, but the trying was all in vain. 
How long did I try? Ah, Nellie, it seemed like a lifetime past! 
But — I think — it was only two hours — and then he came back at 
last ! 

Jealous? No, never again, for I'll fling down my life at his feet; 
He shall take it, fetter and bind it — do with it what seemeth meet! 
He shall prison my heart in his two strong hands — I'll never care 

to be free — 
And love as hard and fierce as he can ; it isn't too hard for me. 



ALONE. 203 

Yes, he treats me just like a child — why, Nell, that's the sweetest 

way! 
And this is the end of it all, yes, forever and a day! 
And here's his ring on my finger, to bind me fast till I die — 
For how could I help it, Nellie, if the King was stronger than I? 



Alone. 

Since she went home — 
The evening shadows linger longer here, 
The winter days fill so much of the year. 
And even summer winds are chill and drear, 

Since she went home. 

Since she went home — 
The robin's note has touched a minor strain, 
The old glad glad songs breathe but a sad refrain, 
And laughter sobs, with hidden, bitter pain, 

Since she went home. 

Since she went home — 
How still the empty rooms her presence blessed; 
Untouched the pillow that her dear head pressed; 
My lonely heart hath nowhere for its rest, 

Since she went home. 

Since she went home — 
The long, long days have crept away like years. 
The sunlight has been dimmed with doubts and fears, 
And the dark nights have rained in lonely tears, 

Since she went home. 



204 LEISUEE HOURS.. 



To Goodricli Jones, Jr. 

[Concerning his disposition to be content with the respectability and ivealth. 
which his father has acquired for him.] 

Your father, by a life of integrity and close and skilful applica- 
tion to business, has made for himself a good reputation in the 
world, and become what the world calls rich. He lives in a good 
house, moves in good society, commands for his family all desirable 
luxuries of dress and equi^Dage, and holds a position which places 
him upon an equahty with the greatest and best. He began hum- 
bly, if I am correctly informed, and has won his eminence by the 
force of his own life and character. I honor him. I count him 
worthy of the respect of every man, and I find myself disposed to 
treat his family with respect on his account — for his sake. This 
feeling toward his family, which I find springing up spontaneously 
within myself seems to be quite universal. The world bows to the 
family of the venerable Goodrich Jones — bows, not to Mrs. Jones, 
particularly, as a respectable woman, but to the wife of Goodrich 
Jones — bows not to his children, as young men and women of 
inteUigence and good morals, but as young people who a,re to be 
treated w^ith more than ordinary courtesy because they are the 
children of the rich and respectable Goodrich Jones. 

This feeling of the world toward Mr. Goodrich Jones' family 
is very natural. It is a tribute of respect to a worthy old gentle- 
man, and, so far as he is concerned, is one of the natural rewards 
of his life of industry and integrity. I notice, however, that the 
family of Mr. Jones have come to look upon these tributes of re- 
spect to them, on account of Mr. Jones, as quite the proper and 
regular thing, and to feel that they are really worthy of special at- 
tention, because Mr. Jones commands it for himself. Instead of 
f eehng a httle humihated by the consciousness that they are treated 



TO GOODEICH JONES, JK. 205 



with special politeness, not because they are particularly brilliant, 
or rich, or well bred, but because they are the family of a rich and 
respectable man, they are inclined to feel proud of it. How they 
manage to be vain of respectability and wealth won for them by 
somebody beside themselves, I do not know; but I suppose their 
case is not singular. Indeed, I know that the world is full of such 
cases, many of which would be ridiculous were they not pitiful. 

The thought that you, Goodrich Jones, Jr., are the son of 
Goodrich Jones, and that you bear his name, seems to form the 
basis of your estimate of yourself. I have already given the rea- 
son why the world treats you respectfully, but that reason need not 
necessarily be identical with that which leads you to respect your- 
self. If, owing to some circumstances or agency beyond your con- 
trol, you were to be suddenly stripped of all your ready money and 
other resources, and set down in some distant city among strangers, 
what would be your first impulse '? Would you go to work, and try 
to make a place for yourself? Would you be wiUing to pass for 
just what you are — to be estimated for just what there is in you of 
the elements of manhood, or would you endeavor to convince 
everybody that you were the son of a certain very rich and respect- 
able Goodrich Jones, and try to secure consideration for yourself 
by such representation? I presume you would pursue the same 
poHcy among strangers that you pursue among friends. You have 
never made an effort to be respected for works or personal merits 
of your own. You push yourself forward everyAvhere as the son of 
Goodrich Jones — indeed, as Goodrich Jones, Jr. You have not 
only been content to hve in the shadow of your father's name, but 
you have been apparently anxious to invite pubhc attention to the 
fact that you do. You have not only been content to hve upon 
money which your father has made, but you seem dehghted to 
have it understood that you can draw upon him for aU you want. 
You seem to have no ambition to make either reputation or money 
for yourseh. On the contrary, I think you would look upon it as 
disgraceful for you to engage in business for the purpose of win- 
ning wealth by labor. 



206 LEISURE HOURS. 



Now, will you permit one who has bowed to you frequently for 
your father's sake, to talk very plainly to you for your own? Let 
me assure you, in the first place, that aU this respect which the 
world shows to you is unsubstantial and unreHable. The man who 
treats you with respect because your father is rich would cease to 
treat you with respect if you were to become poor. The man who 
bows to you because your father occupies a high social position, 
would pass you without recognition were your father, for any rea- 
son, to lose that position. Let me assure you that the world does 
not care for you any further than you are the partaker of the money 
and the respectabihty which have been achieved by your father. 
Nay, I will go further, and say that, side by side with the deference 
which it shows for you on your father's accoimt, it cherishes con- 
tempt for one who is willing to receive his position at second hand. 
You cannot complain of this, for you place your claims for social 
consideration entirely on your father's position. The negro slave is 
proud of the superior wealth of his master, and among his fellow 
slaves, assumes a superior position in consequence of wealth which 
is not his own. He belongs to a splendid establishment, and, in 
his own eyes, wins importance from the association. When his 
master fails, the slave sinks. No, sir, there is nothing rehable in 
this consideration of the world for you. You are only treated as a 
representative of the wealth and respectability of another man, and 
if he were to be displeased with you, and were to disown and disin- 
herit you, you would find yourself without a friend in the world. 

In the second place, your position is an unmanly one. None 
but a mean man can be wiUing to hold his position at second hand. 
I count him fortunate who is born to pleasant and good social 
relations, and aU the advantages which they bring him for the 
development of his personal character; but I count him most un- 
fortunate who, born to such relations, is wilhng to hold them as a 
birthright alone. A man who is wiUing to keep a place in society 
which his father has given him, through his father's continued 
injfluence, is necessarily mean spirited and contemptible. Every 
young man of a manly spirit who finds himself in good society, 
through the influences of others, will prove his righl- to the place 



TO GOODKICn JONES, JE. 207 

and hold the place by his own merits. No man of your age can 
consent to hold his social position solely through the influence of his 
father without convicting himself either of imbecihty or meanness. 
If you had any genuine self-respect, you would feel that to owe to 
others what you are capable of winning for yourself, and to be con- 
sidered only as a portion of a rich and respectable man's belongings, 
is a disgrace to your manhood. 

I suppose the thought has never occurred to you that you owe 
something to your father for what he has done for you. He gave 
you position. His name shielded you through all your childhood 
and youth from many of the dangers and disadvantages which 
other young men are forced to encounter. He gave you great vantage 
ground in the work of hfe, and you owe it to him to improve it. 
If your name helps you, you ought to do something for your name. 
If your father honors you, you ought to honor him, and to do as 
much for his name as he has done for yours. You have no moral 
right to disgrace one who has done so much for you ; for his reputa- 
tion is partly in your keeping. It would be an everlasting disgrace 
to him to bring up a boy who relied solely upon his father for re- 
spectabihty. It would be a blot upon his reputation to have a sou 
so mean as to be content with a name and fortune at second hand 
I tell you, sir, that you must change your plan and course of life, 
or people will talk more and more of your unworthiness to stand 
in your father's shoes, and express their wonder more and more 
that so sensible and industrious a father could train a son so in- 
efficiently as he has trained you. When this good father of yours 
shall die, you will be throAvn more upon yourself. You will have 
money, I presume, and you will still sit in the comfortable shadows of 
your father's name; but the world changes, and strangers will esti- 
mate you at your true value, and those who knew your father wiU 
only talk of the sad contrast between his character and your own. 

I suppose you are not above the desire for the good wiU of the 
world. WeU, the world is mode up of workers. The great masses 
of men — and your father is among the number — are obliged to 
depend upon their own labor and their owp i^^-^a a.oA e?celien«e of 



208 LEISURE HOURS. 



character for wealth and position. People do not envy him, be- 
cause he won all that he possesses by his own skill and industry. 
He is universally admired and esteemed, and you are enjoying 
some of the fruits of this admiration and esteem in the politeness 
of the world toward yourself; but this wUl not always last. You 
must mingle in the world's work, and cast in your lot with your 
fellows, contributing your share of labor, and taking what comes 
of it in pelf and position, or else you will be voted out of the pale 
of popular sympathy. The world does not love drones, and you 
must cease to be a drone or it will never love you. 

I suppose it is hard for you to realize that you are not the 
object of envy among men, but I wish you could for once feel the , 
contempt which your parasitic position excites even among men 
whom you deem beneath your notice. There are many young men 
who have been compelled to labor all their lives for bread, that 
would shrink from exchanging places with you as from a loathsome 
disgrace. They would not take your idle habits, your foppish 
tastes, your childish spirit, and your reputation, for all your father's 
money; and these men, strange as it may seem to your mean spirit, 
are more respected and better lov^d by the world than yourself. I 
say that you are not above the desire for the good will of the 
world; but, if you would get it, you must be a man. You must 
show that you have a man's spirit, and that you are willing to do a 
man's work. No idle man ever yet lived upon the wealth won for 
him by others and at the same time enjoyed the love of the world. 

All this you will find out by-and-by without my teUing you, 
but then it may be too late for remedy. You are now young, but, 
if you live, you will come at length to realize that instead of being 
envied, you are despised. You will make a sadder discovery, too, 
than this. You will discover that you have as little basis for self- 
respect as for popular regard. Years cannot fail to reveal to you 
some things which youth hides from you. You will find that the 
world is busy, that you have no one to spend your time with, and 
that the men who have power and public consideration are men 
who have something to do besides kOhng time and spending money. 



TO GOODRICH JONES, JR. i^09 

You will find that you are without sympathy and companionship 
among the best people, and when you ascertain the reason — for it 
will be so obvious that you will not fail to see it — you mil learn 
that you are not worthy of their sympathy and companionship. 
In short, you will learn to despise yourself. 

I have already spoken to you of the debt which you owe to 
your father for what he has done for you. There are some further 
considerations relating to your family which I \vish to offer. A 
family name and reputation are things of life and growth. The 
character which your father has made is a product of life, so grand 
and far-spreading that his family sits beneath, and is sheltered by 
it. It is the law of all vital products that they shaU grow, or hold 
their ground against encroachment, by what they feed upon. Food 
must be constant, or death is sure to come, soon or late. The 
character of your family — its power, position and high relations — 
is the product of your father's vital force, working in various ways. 
Not many years hence, that force must stop its work. Your father 
will die, and imless you take up his work and do it, this family 
character will pine and dwindle, and ultimately sink in utter decay. 

Look around you and see how some of the rich and influential 
old families have died out, because there was no man in them to 
keep them ahve. The founder of the family did what he could, 
raised his family to the highest social position, gave them wealth, 
bequeathed to them a good name, and died. The sons who fol- 
lowed were not worthy of him. They were not men. They were 
babies, who were wilhng to hve upon their family name, and who 
did hve upon it untU they consumed it. It is sad to see a family 
name fade out as it often does, through the failure of its men to 
feed it with the blood of a worthy hf e ; and yours will fade out in a 
single generation, if you do not immediately prepare yourself to 
take up your father's work, and carry it on. It is always pleasant 
and inspiring to see young men who expect to inherit money enter- 
ing with energy upon the work of life, as if they had their fortunes 
to make. It proves that they are men, and proves that they are 
preparing to handle usefully the money that is to come into their 



210 LEISURE HOURS., 



hands. It proves that they intend to win respect for themselves, 
and to lay at least the foundation of their own fortune. When I 
see such men, I feel that the name of their families is safe in their 
keeping, and that, for at least one generation, those famihes can- 
not sink. The desire to be somebody besides somebody's son, 
shows a manly disposition, which the world at once recognizes, 
and to which it freely opens its heart. 

I am aware that a young man in your position has great temp- 
tauions, and labors under great disadvantages. We are in the habit of 
regarding a poor young man, who has neither family name nor in- 
fluence, as laboring under disadvantages, and in some aspects of 
his case, we regard him rightly. But he has certainly the advan- 
tage of the stimulus which obstacles to be overcome afford. The 
poor man sees that he must make his own fortune, or that his for- 
tune will not be made at aU ; and the obstacles that lie before him 
only stimulate him to labor with the greater efficiency. When I 
see a poor young man bravely accepting his lot, and patiently and 
heroically applying himself to the work of building a fortune and 
achieving a position, I am moved to thank Grod for his poverty, for 
I know that in that poverty he will ultimately discover the secret of 
his best successes. 

Your disadvantage is that position and wealth have already 
been won for you. It is not necessary for you to labor to get bread 
and clothing and a comfortable home. These have already been 
won for you by other hands. I do not deny that this condition of 
things is naturally enervating. I confess that it takes much good 
sense and an unusual degree of manliness to resist the temptations 
to idleness which it brings ; but you must resist them or suffer the 
saddest consequences. You must labor in a steady, manly way to 
make your own place in the world, as a fitting preparation for the 
husbandry and enjoyment of the wealth which avlU some day be 
yours. If you have not those considerations in your favor which 
stimulate the poor man to exertion, then you must adopt those 
which I have tried to present to you. You must remember that to 
be content with a position received at second hand, and to Hve 



TRAMP, TRAMP, TRAMP. 211 

simply to spend the money earned by others is most mimanly. 
You must remember that you owe it to your father and to your 
family name and fame, to keep your famUy in the position of con- 
sideration and influence in which he has placed it, and that it is 
certain to recede from that j)osition unless you do. You must re- 
member that only by work can you win the good will of the world 
around you, or win and retain respect for yourself. 

If the disadvantages of your position are great, your reward 
for worthy work is also great. The world always recognizes the 
strength of the temptations which attach to the position of a rich 
young man, and awards to him a peeuhar honor for that spirit 
which refuses to be respected for anything but his own manhness. 
I know of no young men who hold the good-will of the pubhc more 
thoroughly than those who set aside all the temptations to indolence 
and indulgence which attend wealth, and put themselves heartily to 
the work of deseiwing the social j)osition to which they are born, 
and of earning the bread which a father's wealth has already 
secured. You have but to will and to work, and this beautiful re- 
ward will be yours. 



Tramp, Tramp, Tramp. 

Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching; how many of 
them? Sixty thousand! Sixty full regiments, every man of which 
will, before twelve months shall have completed their course, he 
down in the grave of a drunkard! Every year during the past 
decade has witnessed the same sacrifice ; and sixty regiments stand 
behind this army ready to take its place. It is to be recruited from 
our children and our children's children. Tramp, tramp, tramp — 
the sounds come to us in the echoes of the army just expired; tramp, 
tramp, tramp — the earth shakes with the tread of the host now 
passing; tramp, tramp, tramp — comes to us from the camp of the 
recruits. A great tide of hfe flows resistlessly to its death. What ia 



212 LEISURE HOUES. 



God's name are they fighting for? The privilege of pleasing an 
appetite, of conforming to a social usage, of filling sixty thousand 
homes with shame and sorrow, of loading the public with the bur- 
den of pauperism, of crowding our prison-houses with felons, of 
detracting from the productive industries of the country, of ruining 
fortunes and breaking hopes, of breeding disease and wretchedness, 
of destroying both body and soul in hell before their time. 

The prosperity of the hquor interest, covering every department 
of it, depends entirely on the maintenance of this army. It cannot 
live without it. It never did Hve without it. So long as the liquor 
interest maintains its present prosperous condition, it will cost 
America the sacrifice of sixty thousand men every year. The effect 
is inseparable from the cause. The cost to the country of the Hquor 
traffic is a sum so stupendous that any figures which we should 
dare to give would convict us of trifling. The amount of hfe abso- 
lutely destroyed, the amount of industry sacrificed, the amount of 
bread transformed into poison, the shame, the unavaiHng sorrow, 
the crime, the poverty, the pauperism, the brutality, the wild waste 
of vital and financial resources, make an aggregate so vast, — so 
incalculably vast, — that the only wonder is that the American peo- 
ple do not rise as one man and declare that this great curse shall 
exist no longer. 

A hue-and-cry is raised about woman suffrage, as if any wrong 
which may be involved in woman's lack of the sufi'rage could be 
compared to the wrongs attached to the hquor interest. 

Does any sane woman doubt that women are suffering a thou- 
sand times more from rum than from political disability? 

The truth is, that there is no question before the American 
people to-day that begins to match in importance the temperance 
question. The question of American slavery was never anything 
but a baby by the side of this ; and we prophecy that within ten 
years, if not within five, the whole country wiU be awake to it, and 
divided upon it. The organizations of the hquor interest, the vast 
funds at its command, the universal feeling of those whose business 
is pitted against the national prosperity and pubhc morals — these 



TEAMP, TKAMP, TRAMP. 213 

are enough to show that, upon one side of this matter, at least, the 
present condition of things and the social and pohtical questions 
that he in the immediate future are apprehended. The hquor inter- 
est knows there is to be a great struggle, and is preparing to meet 
it. People both in this country and in Great Britain are beginning 
to see the enormity of the business — are beginning to reahze that 
Christian civihzation is actually poisoned at its fountain, and that 
there can be no purification of it until the source of the poison is 
dried up. 

Temperance laws are being passed by the various Legislatures, 
which they must sustain, or go over, soul and body, to the liquor 
interest and influences. Steps are being taken on behalf of the 
pubhc health, morals and prosperity, which they must approve by 
voice and act, or they must consent to be left behind and left out. 
There can be no concession and no compromise on the part of tem- 
perance men, and no quarter to the foe. The great curse of our 
country and our race must be destroyed. 

Meantime, the tramp, tramp, tramp, sounds on, — the tramp of 
sixty thousand yearly victims. Some are besotted and stupid, 
some are wild with hilarity and dance along the dusty way, some 
reel along in pitiful weakness, some wreak their mad and murderous 
impulses on one another, or on the helpless women and children 
whose destinies are united to theirs, some stop in wayside debauch- 
eries and infamies for a moment, some go bound in chains from 
which they seek in vain to wrench their bleeding wrists, and all are 
poisoned in body and soul, and all are doomed to death. 



214 LEISURE HOURS. 



They Are All Gone. 

They are all gone into the world of light, 

And I alone sit lingering here! 
Their very memory is fair and bright, 

And my sad thoughts doth clear. 

It glows and glitters in my cloudy breast. 

Like stars upon some gloomy grove, 
Or those faint beams in which this hill is drest 

After the sun's remove. 

I see them walking in an air of glory, 

Whose light doth trample on my days ; 
My days, which are at best but dull and hoary, 

Mere glimmering and decays. 

Oh holy hope ! and high humility, — 

High as the heavens above ! 
These are your walks, and you have show'd them me 

To kindle my cold love. 

Dear, beautious death, — the jewel of the just, — 

Shining nowhere but in the dark! 
What mysteries do lie beyond thy dust, 

Could man out look that mark ! 

He that hath found some fledged bird's nest may know. 

At first sight, if the bird be flown; 
But what fair grove or dell he sings in now, 

This is to him uuknown. 




THE WOELD FOKGETTING. 



THEY AEE ALL GONE. ' 217 



And yet, as angels in some brighter dreams 

Call to the soul when men doth sleep, 
So some strange thoughts transcend our wonted themes, 

And into glory peep. 

If a star were confined into a tomb, 

Her captive flames must needs burn there ; 

But when the hand that lockt her up gives room, 
She'll shine through all the sphere. 

Father of eternal life, and all 

Created glories under Thee ! 
Kesume Thy Spirit from this world of thrall 

Into true liberty! 

Either disperse these mists, which blot and fill 

My perspective still as they pass; 
Or else remove me hence unto that bill 

Where I shall need no glass. 




218 LEIStJEE HOURS. 



Ttie Personality and Uses of a Laugti. 

I would be willing to choose my friend by the quality of his 
laugh, and abide the issue. A glad, gushing outflow, a clear, 
ringing, meUcw note of the soul, as surely indicates a genial and 
genuine nature as the rainbow in the dew-drop heralds the morning 
sun, or the frail flower in the wilderness betrays the zephyr-tossed 
seed of the parterre. 

A laugh is one of God's truths. It tolerates no disguises. 
Falsehood may train its voice to flow in softest cadences, its Hps 
to wreathe into smiles of surpassing sweetness, its face 

" ^To put on 

That look we trust in ," 



but its laugh will betray the mockery. Who has not started and 
shuddered at the hoUow "he-he-he!" of some velvet-voiced 
Mephistopheles, whose sinuous fascinations, without this note of 
warning, this premonitory rattle, might have bound the soul with a 
strong speU! 

Leave nature alone. If she is noble, her broadest expression 
will soon tone itself down to fine accordance with life's earnestness; 
if she is base, no silken interweavings can keep out of sight her 
ugly head of discord. If we put a laugh into straight- jacket and 
leading-strings, it becomes an abortion; if we attempt to refine it, 
we destroy its pure, mellifluent ring; if we suppress a laugh, it 
struggles and dies on the heart, and the place where it hes is apu 
ever after to be weak and vulnerable. No, laugh trtdy, as you 
would speak truly, and both the inner and the outer man will 
rejoice. A full, spontaneous outburst opens all the delicate valves 
of being, and ghdes a subtle oil through aU its complicated 
mechanism. 

Laugh heartily, if you would keep the dew of your youth. 
There is no need to lay our girlhood and boyhood so doggedly 
down upon the altar of sacrifice as we toil up life's mountain. 
Dear, innocent children, lifting their dewy eyes and fair foreheads 



OMENS, 219 

to the benedictions of angels, prattling and gamboling because it 
is a great joy to live, sboidd flit like sunbeams among the stern - 
faced and stalwart. Young men and maidens should walk with 
strong, elastic tread, and cheerful voices among the weak and 
uncertain. White hairs should be no more the insignia of age, but 
the crown of ripe and perennial youth. 

Laugh for your beauty. The joyous carry a fountain of light 
in their eyes, and round into rosy dimples where the echoes of 
gladness play at "hide-and-go-seek." Your "lean and hungry 
Cassius" is never betrayed into a laugh, and his smile is more 
cadaverous than his despair. 

Laugh if you would live. He only exists who drags his days 
after him like a massive chain, asking sympathy with uphfted eye- 
brows and weak utterance as the beggar asks alms. Better die, for 
your own sake and the world's sake, than to pervert the uses and 
graces and dignities of life. 

Make your own sunshine and your own music, keep your heart 
open to the smile of the good Father, and brave all things. 

"Care to our cofRn adds a nail, no doubt, 
And every laugh so merry draws one out." 



Omens. 



Poict. I hope we shall have another good day to-morrow, for 
the clouds are red in the west. 

Phys. I have no doubt of it, for the red has a tint of purple. 

Hal. Do you know why this tint portends fine weather? 

Plnjs. The air when dry, I beheve, refracts more red, or heat- 
making rays ; and as dry air is not perfectly transparent, they are 
again reflected in the horizon. I have observed generally a coppery 
or yellow sunset to foretell rain; but, as an indication of wet 
weather approaching, nothing is more certain than a halo round 
the moon, which is produced by the precipitated water; and the 
larger the circle, the nearer the clouds, and, consequently, the more 
ready to fall. 



220 LEISTJEE HOUES. 



Hal. I have often observed that the old proverb is correct : 
"A rainbow in the morning is the shepherd's warning. A rain- 
bow at night is the shepherd's dehght.*' Can you explain this 
omen? 

Phys. A rainbow can only occur when the clouds containing 
or depositing the rain are opposite to the sun, — and in the evening 
the rainbow is in the east, and in the morning in the west; and as 
our heavy rains in this cHmate are usually brought by the westerly 
wind, a rainbow in the west indicates that the bad weather is on 
the road, by the wind, to us; whereas the rainbow in the east 
proves that the rain in these clouds is passing from us. 

Poict. I have often observed that when the swallows fly high, 
fine weather is to be expected or continued ; but when they fly low, 
and close to the ground, rain is almost surely approaching. Can 
you account for this? 

Hal. Swallows follow the flies and gnats, and flies and gnats 
usually dehght in warm strata of air; and as warm air is hghter, 
and usually moister than cold air, when the warm strata of air are 
higher, there is less chance of moisture being thrown down from 
them by the mixture with cold air ; but when the warm and moist 
air is close to the surface, it is almost certain that, as the cold air 
flows down into it, a deposition of water will take place. 

Poict. I have often seen sea-gulls assemble on the land, and 
have almost always observed that very stormy and rainy weather 
was approaching. I conclude that these animals, sensible of 'a 
current of air approaching from the ocean, retire to the land to 
shelter themselves from the storm. 

Orn. No such thing. The storm is their element; and the 
Httle petrel enjoys the heaviest gale, because, living on the smaller 
sea insect, he is sure to find his food in the spray of a heavy 
wave, and you may see him flitting above the edge of the highest 
surge. I beheve that the reason of this migration of sea-gulls and 
other sea-birds to the land, is their security of finding food ; and 
they may be observed, at this time, feeding greedily on the earth- 
worms and larvae, driven out of the ground by severe floods; and 



OMENS. 221 

the fish, on which they prey in fine weather in the sea, leave the 
surface and go deeper in storms. The search after food, as we 
agreed on a former occasion, is the principal cause why animals 
change their places. The different tribes of the wading birds 
always migrate when rain is about to take place ; and I remember 
once, in Italy, having been long waiting, in the end of March, for 
the arrival of the double snipe in the Campagne of Eome, a great 
flight appeared on the 3d of April, and the day after heavy rain set 
in, which greatly interfered with my sport. The vulture, upon 
the same principle, follows armies; and I have no doubt that the 
augury of the ancients was a good deal founded upon the obser- 
vation of the instincts of birds. There are many superstitions of 
the vidgar. owing to the same source. For anglers, in Spring, it 
is always unlucky to see single magpies, but tivo may be always 
regarded as a favorable omen ; and the reason is, that in cold and 
stormy weather one magpie alone leaves the nest in search of food, 
the other remaining sitting upon the eggs or the young ones ; but 
when two go out together, it is only when the weather is warm 
and mild, and favorable for fishmg. 

Poict. The singular connections of causes and effects, to which 
you have just referred, make suj)erstition less to be wondered at, 
particularly amongst the vulgar; and when two facts, naturally 
unconnected, have been accidentally coincident, it is not singular 
that this coincidence should have been observed and registered, 
and that omens of the most absurd kind should be trusted in. In 
the west of England, half a century ago, a particular hollow noise 
on the sea-coast was referred to a spirit or goblin called Bucca, and 
was supposed to foretell a shipwreck ; the philosopher knows that 
sound travels much faster than currents in the air, and the sound 
always foretold the approach of a very heavy storm, which seldom 
takes place on that wild and rocky coast without a shipwreck on 
some part of its extensive shores, surrounded by the Atlantic. 

Phys. AU the instances of omens you have mentioned are 
founded on reason ; but how can you explain such absurdities as 
Friday being an unlucky day, the terror of spilling salt, or meeting 
an old woman? I knew a man of very high dignity who was 



222 



LEISUEE HOUES. 



exceedingly moved by these omens, and who never went out shoot- 
ing without a bittern's claw fastened to his button-hole by a riband, 
which he thought insured him good luck, 

Poict. These, as well as the omens of death-watches, dreams, 
etc., a.re for the most part founded upon some accidental coincidence ; 
but spiUing of salt, on an uncommon occasion, may, as I have 
known it, arise from a disposition to apoplexy, shown by an incip- 
ient numbness in the hand, and may be a fatal symptom; and 
persons dispirited by bad omens sometimes prepare the way for evil 
fortune, for confidence in success is a great means of insuring it. 
The dream of Brutus before the field of Pharsaha probably pro- 
duced a species of irresolution and despondency which was the 
principal cause of his losing the battle ; and I have heard that the 
illustrious sportsman to whom you referred just now, was always 
observed to shoot iU, because he shot carelessly, after one of his 
dispiriting omens. 

Hal. I have in hfe met with a few things which I have found 
it impossible to explain, either by chance coincidences or by natural 
connections, and I have known minds of a very superior class 
affected by them — persons in the habit of reasoning deeply and 
profoundly. 

Phys. In my opinion, profound minds are the most likely 
to think hghtly of the resources of human reason; and it is the 
pert superficial thinker who is generally strongest in every kind of 
unbelief. The deep philosopher sees chains of causes and effects 
so wonderfully and strangely linked together, that he is usually the 
last person to decide upon the impossibihty of any two series of events 
being made independent of each other; and in science so many 
natural miracles, as it were, have been brought to hght, such as 
the fall of stones from meteors in the atmosphere, the disarming a 
thunder-cloud by a metaUic point, the production of fire from ice by 
a metal white as silver, and the referring certain laws of motion of 
the sea to the moon, that the physical inquirer is seldom disposed 
to assert confidently on any abstruse subjects belonging to tne 
order of natural things, and still less so those relating to the more 
mysterious relations of moral events and intellectual natures^ 



BEAUTY. 



Beauty. 



223 



The poets are quite right in decking their mistresses with the 
spoils of the landscape, flower gardens, gems, rainbows, flushes of 
morning and stars of night, since all beauty points at identity, and 
whatsoever thing does not express to me the sea and sky, day and 
night, is somewhat forbidden and wrong. Into every beautiful ob- 
ject there enters somewhat immeasurable and divine, and just as 
much bounded by outhnes, like mountains on the horizon, as into 
tones of music or depths of space. Polarized Hght showed the se- 
cret architecture of bodies; and when the second-sight of the mind 
is opened, now one color, or form, or gesture, and now another, 
has a pungency, as if a more interior ray had been emitted, dis- 
closing its deep holdings in the frame of things. 

The laws of this translation we do not know, or why one 
feature or gesture enchants, why one word or syllable intoxicates, 
but the fact is famihar that the fine touch of the eye, or a grace of 
manners, or a phrase of poetry, plants wings at our shoulders; as 
if the Divinity, in his approaches, lifts away mountains of obstruc- 
tion, and designs to draw a truer hne, which the mind knows and 
owns. This is that haughty force of beauty, vis superha fornm, 
which the poets praise — under calm and precise outline, the im- 
measurable and divine — beauty hiding all wisdom and power in its 
calm sky. 

All high beauty has a moral element in it, and I find the an- 
tique sculpture as ethical as Marcus Antoninus, and the beauty 
ever in proportion to the depth of thought. Gross and impure 
natures, however decorated, seem impure shambles ; but character 
gives splendor to youth, and awe to wrinkled skin and gray hairs. 
An adorer of truth we cannot choose but obey, and the woman who 
has shared with us the moral sentiments — her locks must appear 
to us sublime. Thus, there is a climbing scale of culture, from 
the first agreeable sensation which a sparkling gem or a scarlet 



224 LEISURE HOURS. 



stain affords the eye, up through fair outlines and details of the 
landscape, features of the human face and form, signs and tokens 
of thought and character in manners, up to the ineffable mysteries 
of the human intellect. Wherever we begin, thither our steps tend; 
an ascent from the joy of a horse in his trappings up to the per- 
ception of Newton, that the globe on which we ride is only a larger 
apple falling from a larger tree; up to the perception of Plato, that 
globe and universe are rude and early expression of an all-dissolv- 
ing unity — the first stair on the scale to the temple of the mind. 



Old Age. 



When life has been well spent, age is a loss of what it can well 
spare — muscular strength, organic instincts, gross bulk, and works 
that belong to these. But the central wisdom, which was old in 
infancy, is young in fourscore years, and, dropping off obstructions, 
leaves in happy subjects the mind purified and wise. I have heard 
that whoever loves is in no condition old. I have heard that when- 
ever the name of man is spoken the doctrine of immortality is 
announced; it cleaves to his constitution. The mode of it baffles 
our wit, and no whisper comes to us from the other side. But the 
inference from the working of intellect, Hving knowledge, living 
skill — at the end of life just ready to be bom — affirms the inspira- 
tions of affection and of the moral sentiment. 




THE OLD STOCKING MENDER 225 



The Old Stocking Mender. 

She was only an opera-house dancer, 

Content with a paid a night; 
With a heart care-free and unsuUied, 

Although in the glitter and light 
For two long years she bad struggled, 

And of tempters there were not a few, 
Yet through it all she lived ever 

As pure as the fresh-fallen dew. 

One night, as homeward she hurried 

Through the sleet and the rain, she fell 
On the ice- covered pavement beneath her, 

And a passer-by saw her- and — well, 
He picked her np and carried her 

Home, for she was light of weight 
And had sprained her foot, and could not 

Walk, and the hour was late. 

For weeks there was no dancing. 

And the nobleman went each day 
To spe how she fared in her trouble. 

And fo time passed quickly away. 
Until the vines were in flower. 

And each the other did love, 
With a love as pure and as lasting 

As the light from the white stars above. 

He would have given her jewels 
And ornaments costly and bright, 

But she'd take none of these from her lover, 
All he gave her was roses white. 



226 LEISURE HOURS. 



For she said, — *'Did I take your treasures, 

"I should be no better than those 
Who sell their kisses for silver," 
So she took from his hands a rose. 

To be cherished for ever and ever. 

As long as her life should last; 
And all through the year they were happy, 

Not a shadow was over them cast. 
But soon there was war and trouble, 

And Ler lover, a soldier brave. 
Was called away to the battle, — 

Perchance to a nameless grave. 

But first he wtnt to Guidette 

And said: "0 light of my eyes, 
I must go where honor now calls me." 

"Your honor!" Guidette cries, 
"That word sounds so hard to us women, 

Against us 'tis always set ; 
I hate it I think, I hate it, 

Stay with me — leave me not yet!" 

But he kissed her and said, "Now I'steu 

My love, I must leave you here 
But I shall be true to you always, 

And if I'm not back in a year. 
You may know I am dead in battle." 

And he left in her hand a rose. 
To be kept 'til the battle was over 

And Italy again in repose. 

The year passed by and he came not. 

And never a word did she hear. 
The people then mocked and derided — 



THE OLD STOCKING MENDER. -27 

Always greeted her with a jeer. 
"A fine lo-ver indeed!" "He fooled thee." 

But never a word did she say 
For she knew he was dead, and in anguish 

She silently turned away. 

Thus she lived on and on in her sorrow; 

The theatre saw her no more; 
And at night, as the moon rose upwards 

And shone through her window and door, 
She sat with her withered roses 

And a faith that knew no death, 
For what was the use to have loved him 

If it died with the first cold breath? 

And year after year passed onward 

In poverty, toil and pain, 
And though she oft suffered from hunger 

She never would dance agaio. 
For she said it was not for others 

To look on what he called fair, 
So she took to mending the stockings 

Of the dancers who brought them there. 

Thus for fifty weary winters 

She lived so poor and alone, 
With her deathless faith and her roses, 

And to all her story was known. 
Her only hope on earth was. 

That when Death her soul freedom gave, 
That the roses dead fifty summers 

Should lie with her in her grave. 

One spring morn the neighbors. 
From the window missed her face 



228 LEISURE HOUES. 



And they knew that only the Keaper 
Death, called her from her place. 

And when the earth in its gladness 
And its brightest colors was dressed, 

They found the old stocking-mender 
With her roses clasped to her breast. 



A "Woman's Shortcomings. 

She has laughed as softly as if she had sighed, 

She has counted six, and over, 
Of a purse well filled, and a heart well tried — 

Oh! each a worthy lover ! 
They "give her time;" for her soul must slip 

Where the world has set the grooving: 
She will lie to none with her fair red lips — 

But love seeks truer loving. 

She trembles her fan in her sweetness dumb, 

As her thoughts were beyond recalling 
With a glance for one, and a glance for some, 

From her eyelids rising and falling; 
Speaks common words with a blushful air, 

Hears bold words, unreproving ; 
But her silence says — what she never will swear- 

And love seeks better loving. 

Go, lady, lean to the night guitar 

And drop a smile to the bringer, 
And smile as sweetly, when he is far, 

At the voice of an in-door singer. 



A WOMAN'S SHOETCOMINGS. 231 

Bask tenderly beneath tender eyes ; 

Glance lightly, on their removing; 
And join new vows to old perjuries — 

But dare not call it loving. 

Unless you can think, when the song is done. 

No other is soft in the rhythm; 
Unless you can feel, when left bji one. 

That all men else go with him ; 
Unless you can know, when upraised by his breath, 

That your beauty itself wants proving ; 
Unless you can swear, "For life, for death!" — 

Oh! fear to call it loving! 

Unless you can muse in a crowd all day. 

On the absent face that fixed you ; 
Unless you can love, as the eagles may, 

With the breath of heaven betwixt you; 
Unless you can dream that his faith is fast, 

Through behoving and unbehoving; 
Unless you can die when the dream is past — 

Oh, never call it loving! 




232 LEISUEE HOUES., 



"When Baby And I Were Together. 

One eve as I watched the red sun sink to rest 
In the purple-tipped waves of the lake's heaving breast, 
Sleep came to my eyes; and the sun's parting rays 
Tinged my fancy with gold, and I dreamed of the days 
When baby and I were together. 

In fancy I hold him close clasped to my breast, 
Lowly singing I tenderly lull him to rest. 
The soft little hand finds its way to my lips 
And I press kisses swift on the pink finger-tips. 
And baby and I love together. 

And holding him thus I gaze into his eyes. 
Eyes gray as the soft dawn of midsummer's skies, 
And I drive from my heart all the grief and the pain 
It has suffered so long — for in sweet dreams again 
My baby and I are together. 

His warm dimpled cheek nestles close to my face 
As his tiny form lies in my loving embrace, 
I press on his lips a long, lingering kiss. 
And my whole being thrills with an exquisite bliss 
That once more we two are together. 

I clasp him still closer; for e'en in my dreams 
Bitter anguish sweeps over my heart, and it seems 
That my love cannot keep him — 0, God ! the deep pain 
Of that dreary awakening — for never again 
Can baby and I be together. 



MY MOTHER'S BIBLE. 233 



My Mottier's Bible. 

Oil one of the shelves in my library, surrouiided by volumes of 
all kinds on various subjects, and in various languages, stands an 
old book, in its plain covering of brown paper, unprepossessing to 
the eye, and apparently out of place among the more preten- 
tious volumes that stand by its side. To the eye of a stranger it 
has certainly neither beauty nor comeliness. Its covers are worn ; 
its leaves marred by long use; yet, old and worn as it is, to me it 
is the most beautiful and most valuable book on my shelves. No 
other awakens such associations, or so appeals to aU that is best 
and noblest within me. It is, or rather it ivas, my mother's Bible 
— companion of her best and hoUest hours, source of her unspeak- 
able joy and consolation. From it she derived the principles of a 
truly Christian life and character. It was the light to her feet, 
and the lamp to her path. It was constantly by her side ; and, as 
her steps tottered in the advanciug pilgrimage of life, and her eyes 
grew dim with age, more and more precious to her became the weU 
worn pages. 

One morning, just as the stars were fading into the dawn of 
the coming Sabbath, the aged pilgrim passed on beyond the stars 
and beyond the morning, and entered into the rest of the eternal 
iiabbath — to look upon the face of Him of whom the law and the 
prophets had spoken, and whom, not having seen, she had loved. 
And now, no legacy is to me more precious than that old Bible. 
Years have passed; but it stands there on its shelf, eloquent as ever, 
witness of a beautioil life that is finished, and a silent monitor to 
the living. In hours of trial and sorrow it says, "Be not cast 
down, my son ; for thou shalt yet praise Him who is the health of 
thy countenance and thy Grod." In moments of weakness and fear 
it says, "Be strong, my son; and quit yourself manfully." When 
sometimes, from the cares and conflicts of external life, I come 
back to the study, weary of the world and tired of men — of men 



234 LEISURE HOUES. 



that are so hard and selfish, and a world that is so imfeehng — and 
the strings of the soul have become untuned and discordant, I seem 
to hear that Book saying, as with the well remembered tones of a 
voice long silent, "Let not your heart be troubled. For what is 
your life? It is even as a vapor." Then .my troubled spirit be- 
comes calm ; and the little world, that had grown so great and so 
formidable, sinks into its true place again. I am peaceful, I am 
strong. 

There is no need to take down the volume from the shelf, or. 
open it. A glance of the eye is sufficient. Memory and the law of 
association supply the rest. Yet there are occasions when it is 
otherwise; hours in hfe when some deeper grief has troubled the 
heart, some darker, heavier cloud is over the spirit and over the 
dwelling, and when it is comfort to take down that old Bible and 
search its pages. Then, for a time, the latest editions, the original 
languages, the notes and commentaries, and aU the critical appara- 
tus which the scholar gathers around him for the study of the 
Scriptures, are laid aside ; and the plain old English Bible that was 
my mother's is taken from the shelf. 



Tlie 'Wonders of an Atom. 

All things visible around us are aggregations of atoms. From 
particles of dust, which under the microscope could scarcely be dis- 
tinguished one from the other, are all the varied forms of nature 
created. This grain of dust, this particle of sand, has strange 
properties and powers. Science has discovered some, but still more 
truths are hidden within this irregular molecule of matter which 
we now survey than even philosophy dares dream of. How strangely 
it obeys the impulses of heat — mysterious are the influences of 
light upon it — electricity wonderfully excites it — and still more cu- 
rious is the manner in which it obeys the magic of chemical force. 
These are phenomena which we h^ve seen; we know them and we 



THE :,IOCi:iNG BIRD. 235 



can reproduce them at our pleasure. We have advanced a little 
way into the secrets of nature, and from the spot we have gained 
we look forward with a vision somewhat brightened by our task; 
but we discover so much yet unknown that we learn another truth 
— our vast ignorance of many things relating to this grain of dust. 

It gathers around it other particles; they chng together, and 
each acting upon every other one, and all of them arranging them- 
selves around the little center, according to some law, a beautiful 
crystal results, the geometric perfection of its form being a source 
of admiration. 

It quickens with yet undiscovered energies ; it moves with life ; 
dust and vital force combine; blood and bone, nerve and muscle 
result from the combination. Forces which we can not, by the 
utmost refinements of our philosophy detect, direct the whole, and 
from the same dust which formed the rock and grew in the tree, is 
produced a living and a breathing thing, capable of receiving a 
divine illumination, of bearing in its new state the gladness and 
the glory of a soul. 



The Mocking Bird. 

The plumage of the mocking bird, though none of the home- 
liest, has nothing gaudy or brilhant in it; and, had he nothing else 
to recommend him, would scarcely entitle him to notice, but his 
figure is well proportioned and even handsome. The ease, elegance, 
and rapidity of his movements, the animation of his eye, and the 
inteUigence he displays in hstening and laying up lessons from 
almost every species of the feathered creation within his hearing, 
are really surprising, and mark the peculiarity of his genius. To 
these qualities we may add that of a voice fuU, strong, and musical, 
and capable of almost every modulation, from the clear meUow 
tones of the wood thrush to the savage scream of the bald eagle. 
In measure and accent he faithfully follows his originals. In force 



236 LEISURE HOURS. 



and sweetness of expression he greatly improves upon them. In 
his native groves, mounted on the top of a tall bush or half-grown 
tree, in the dawn of a dewy morning, while the woods are already 
vocal with a multitude of warblers, his admirable song rises pre- 
eminent over every competitor. The ear can listen to his music 
alone, to which that of all the others seems a mere accompani- 
ment. Neither is this strain altogether imitative. His own native 
notes, which are easily distinguishable by such as are well ac- 
quainted with those of our various song birds, are bold and full, 
and varied seemingly beyond all limits. They consist of short ex- 
pressions of two, three, or at the most, five or six syllables; gen- 
erally interspersed with imitations, and all of them uttered with 
great emphasis and rapidity, and continued with undiminished 
ardor, for half an hour or an hour at a time, his expanded wings 
and tail, glistening with white, and the buoyant gayety of his ac- 
tion, arresting the eye, as his song most irresistibly does the ear. 
He sweeps round with enthusiastic ecstacy — he mounts and de- 
scends as his song swells or dies away; and, as my friend Mr. Bar- 
tram has beautifully expressed it, "He bounds aloft with the celerity 
of an arrow, as if to recover or recall his very soul, expired in the 
last elevated strain." While tbus exerting himself, a by-stander, 
destitute of sight, would suppose that the whole feathered tribe had 
assembled together, on a trial of skill, each striving to produce his 
utmost effect, so perfect are his imitations. He many times de- 
ceives the sportsman, and sends him in search of birds that per- 
haps are not within miles of him, but whose notes he exactly imi- 
tates. Even birds themselves are frequently imposed on by this 
admirable mimic, and are decoyed by the fancied call of their 
mates, or dive, with precipitation, into the depths of thickets, at 
the scream of what they suppose to be the sparrow hawk. 

The mocking bird loses httle of the power and energy of his 
song by confinement. In his domesticated state, when he com- 
mences his career of song, it is impossible to stand by uninterested. 
He whistles for the dog; Caesar starts up, wags his tail, and runs 
to meet his master. He squeaks out like a hurt chicken, and the 



THE MOCKIN'G BIRD. 237 



hen hurries about with hanging wings, and bristled, feathers, cluck- 
ing to protect its injured brood. The barking of the dog, the mew- 
ing of the cat, the creaking of a j)assing wheelbarrow, follow 
with great truth and rapidity. He repeats the tune taught him by 
his master, though of considerable length, fully and faithfully. 
He runs over the quaverings of the canary, and the clear whisthngs 
of the Virginian nightingale, or red-bird, with such superior execu- 
tion and effect, that the mortified songsters feel their own inferior- 
ity, and become altogether silent; while he seems to triumph in 
their defeat by redoubling his exertions. 

This excessive fondness for variety, however, in the opinion of 
some, injures his song. His elevated imitations of the brown 
thrush are frequently interrupted by the crowing of cocks ; and 
the warbhngs of the blue-bird, which he exquisitely manages, are 
mingled with the screaming of swallows, or the cackling of hens; 
amidst the simple melody of the robin Ave are suddenly surprised 
by the shrill reiterations of the whip-poor-will; while the notes of the 
kildeer, bluejay, martin, Baltimore, and twenty others, succeed with 
such imposing reality, that we look round for the originals, and dis- 
cover, with astonishment, that the sole performer in this singular 
concert is the admirable bird now before us. During this exhibition 
of his powers he spreads his wings, expands his tail, and throws 
himself around the cage in all the ecstasy of enthusiasm, seeming 
not only to sing, but to dance, keeping time to the measure of his 
own music. Both in his native and domesticated state, during the 
solemn stillness of night, as soon as the moon rises in silent maj- 
esty, he begins his delightful solo; and serenades us the livelong 
night with a full display of his vocal powers, making the whole 
neighborhood ring with his inimitable medley. 



238 LEISURE HOUKS. 



Last Days of Pompeii. 

Lord Lytton's "Historical Romance," from which tliis selection is taken, is ex- 
tremely interesting. The description is the work of Lytton's fancy, but Is founded 
apon the destruction of Herculaneum and Pompeii by an eruption of Mt. Vesuvius, 
A. D. 79. In 1750, nearly seventeen centuries after Its destruction, the city of Pom- 
peii was disinterred from its silent tomb, all vivid with undimmed hues ; its walls 
fresh as if painted yesterday. 

The scene Is located in the amphitheater, when the cloud of fire and destruction 
was seen rolling toward the city. Glaucus, an Athenian, had been accused of mur- 
dering the priest Apaecides, and was doomed to furnish amusement to the spectators 
by fighting a hungry lion in the amphitheater. As the Athenian entered the arena,— 

All evidence of fear — all fear itself — was gone. A red and 
haughty flush spread over the paleness of his features — he towered 
aloft to the full of his glorious stature. In the elastic haauty of his 
limbs and form, in his intent but unfrowning brow, in the high dis- 
dain, and in the indomitable soul, which breathed visibly, which 
spoke audibly, from his attitude, his Hp, his eye, — he seemed Yne 
very incarnation, vivid and corporeal, of the valor of his land — of 
the divinity of its worship — at once a hero and a god I * * * 

Glaucus had bent his hmbs so as to give himself the firmest 
posture at the expected rush of the lion, with his small and shining 
weapon raised on high, in the faint hope that one well-directed 
thrust (for he knew that he should have time but for one), might 
penetrate through the eye to the brain of his grim foe. But, to the 
unutterable astonishment of all, the beast seemed not even aware 
of the presence of the criminal. 

At the first moment of its release it halted abruptly in the 
arena, raised itself half on end, snuffing the upward air with impa- 
tient sighs ; then suddenly it sprang forward, but not on the Athe- 
nian. At half speed it circled round and round the space, turning 
its vast head from side to side with an anxious and perturbed gaze, 
as if seeking only some avenue of escaj)e ; once or twice it endeav- 
ored to leap up the parapet that divided it from the audience, and, 
on failing,- uttered rather a baffled howl than its deep-toned and 



LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 241 

kingly roar. It evinced no sign, either of wrath or hunger ; its tail 
drooped along the sand instead of lashing its gaunt sides ; and its 
eye, though it wandered at times to Glaucus roUed again listlessly 
from him. At length, as if tired of attempting to escape, it crept 
with a moan into its cage, and once more laid itself down to rest. 

[Just as the keeper is about to take the goad, to urge the lion, forth to the conflict, 
the priest Calenus apiiears and declares that the Athenian is innocent, and that Arba- 
ces of Egj'pt is the murderer of Apaecides. It was then thought to be a miracle that 
the lion had spared the Athenian. In the midst of the confusion, the terrible reality 
of the eruption of Mt. Vesuvius furnished an explanation of the lion's conduct. Omit- 
ting further description, we now quote from " Progress of the Destruction."] 

The cloud, which had scattered so deep a murkiness over the 
day, had now settled into a sohd and impenetrable mass. It resem- 
bled less even the thickest gloom of a night in the open air than the 
close and bhnd darkness of some narrow room. But in proportion 
as the blackness gathered, did the hghtnings around Vesuvius 
increase in their vivid and scorching glare. Nor was their horrible 
beauty confined to the usual hues of fire ; no rainbow ever rivaled 
their varying and prodigal dyes. Now brightly blue as the most 
azure depth of a southern sky — now of a Hvid and snake-like green, 
darting restlessly to and fro as the folds of an enormous serpent — 
now a lurid and intolerable crimson, gushing forth through the col- 
umns of smoke, far and wide, and hghting up the whole city from 
arch to arch — then suddenly dying into a sickly paleness, like the 
ghost of their own life! In th j pauses of the showers, you heard 
the rumbhng of the earth beneath, and the groaning waves of the 
tortured sea ; or lower still, and audible but to the watch of intensest 
fear, the grinding and hissing murmur of the escaping gases through 
the chasms of the distant mountain. Sometimes the cloud appeared 
to break from its sohd mass, and, by the lightning, to assume quaint 
and vast mimicries of human or of monster shapes, striding across 
the gloom, hurhng one upon the other, and vanishing swiftly into 
the turbulent abyss of shade ; so that, to the eyes and fancies of the 
affrighted wanderers, the unsubstantial vapors were as the bodily 
forms of gigantic foes — the agents of terror and of death. 



242 LEISURE HOURS., 



The ashes in many places were already knee deep ; and the boil- 
ing showers which came from the steaming breath of the volcano 
forced their way into the houses, bearing with them a strong and 
suffocating vapor. In some places immense fragments of rock, 
hurled upon the houses' roofs,, bore down along the street masses of 
confused ruin, which yet more and more, with every hour, obstructed 
the ./ay; and as the day advanced, the motion of the earth was 
more sensibly felt — the footing seemed to shde and creep — nor could 
chariot or htter be kept steady, even on the most level ground. 

Sometimes the huger stones striking against each other as they 
fel!, broke into countless fragments, emitting sparks of fire, which 
caught whatever was combustible within their reach ; and along the 
plains beyond the city the darkness was noT\ terribly reheved ; for 
several houses, and even vineyards, had been set on flames; and at 
various intervals the fires rose sullenly and fiercely against the soHd 
gloom. To add to this partial rehef of the darkness, the citizens 
had, here and there, in the more pubhc places, such as the porticoes 
of temples and the entrances to the forum, endeavored to place rows 
of torches; but these rarely continued long; the showers and the 
wind extinguished them, and the sudden darkness into which their 
fitful light was converted had something in it doubly impressive on 
the impotence of human hopes, the lesson of despair. 

Frequently, by the momentary hght of these torches, parties 
of fugitives encountered each other, some hurrying towards the sea, 
others flpng from the sea back to the land; for the ocean had 
retreated rapidly from the shore — an utter darkness lay over it, and, 
upon its groaning and tossing waves the storm of cinders and rocks 
feU without the protection which the streets and roofs afforded to 
the land. Wild — haggard — ghastly with supernatural fears, these 
groups encountered each other, but without the leisure to speak, to 
consult, to advise; for the showers fell now frequently, though not 
continuously, extinguishing the Hghts which showed to each band 
the death -like faces of the other, and hurrying all to seek refuge 
beneath the nearest shelter. The whole elements of civilization 
were broken up. Ever and anon, by the flickering lights, you saw 



LAST DAYS OF POMPEII. 243 

the thief hastening by the most solemn authorities of the law, laden 
with, and fearfully chuckling over, the produce of his sudden gains. 
If, in the darkness, wife was separated from husband, or parent from 
child, vain was the hope of reunion. Each hurried blindly and 
confusedly on. Nothing in aU the various and comphcated machin- 
ery of social life was left save the primal law of self-j)reservation ! 

Through this awful scene did the Athenian wade his way, 
accompanied by lone and the blind girl. Suddenly a rush of hun- 
dreds, in their path to the sea, swept by them. Nydia was torn 
from the side of Glaucus, who, mth lone, was borne rapidly onward; 
and when the crowd (whose forms they saw not, so thick was the 
gloom) were gone, Nydia was still separated from their side. Glau- 
cus shouted her name. No answer came. They retraced their 
steps — in vain : they could not discover her — it was evident she had 
been swept along in some opposite direction by the human current. 
Their friend, their preserver, was lost! And hitherto Nydia had 
been their guide. Her bhndness rendered the scene famihar to her 
alone. Accustomed, through a perpetual night, to thread the wind- 
ings of the city, she had led them unerringly toward the sea-shore, 
by which they had resolved to hazard an escape. Now, which way 
could they wend? AU was rayless to them — a maze without a clue. 
"Wearied, despondent, bewif&ered, they, however, passed along, the 
ashes faUing upon their heads, the fragmentary stones dashing up 
in sparkles before their feet. 

" Alas! alas!" murmured lone, " I can go no farther; my steps 
sink among the scorching cinders. Fly, dearest ! — beloved, fly ! and 
leave me to my fate!" 

"Hush, my betrothed! my bride! Death with thee is sweeter 
than Hfe without thee ! Yet, whither — oh ! whither, can we direct 
ourselves through the gloom ? Already, it seems that we have made 
but a circle, and are in the very spot which we quitted an hour ago." 

" Blessed Hghtning ! See, lone — see ! the portico of the Temple 
of Fortime is before us. Let us creep beneath it; it will protect us 
from the showers." 

He caught his beloved in his arms, and with difficulty and labor 



244 LEISURE HOURS. 



gained the temple. He bore her to the remoter and more sheltered 
part of the portico, and leaned over her, that he might shield her, 
with his own form, from the hghtning and the showers! The 
beauty and the unselfishness of love could hallow even that dismal 
time! 

"Who is there?" said the trembhng and hollow voice of one 
who had preceded them in their place of refuge. "Yet, what mat- 
ters? the crush of the ruined world forbids to us friends or foes." 

lone turned at the sound of the voice, and, with a faint shriek, 
cowered again beneath the arms of Glaucus; and he, looking in the 
direction of the voice, beheld the cause of her alarm. Through the 
darkness glared forth two burning eyes — the lightning flashed and 
lingered athwart the temple — and Glaucus, with a shudder, per- 
ceived the piUars; — and, close beside it, unwitting of the vicinity, 
lay the giant form of him who had accosted them — the wounded 
gladiator, Niger. 

That hghtning had revealed to each other the form of beast 
and man ; yet the instinct of both was quelled. Nay, the hon crept 
near and nearer to the gladiator, as for companionship; and the 
gladiator did not recede or tremble. The revolution of nature 
had dissolved her hghter terrors as well as her wonted ties. 

While they were thus terribly protected, a group of men and 
women, bearing torches, passed by the temple. They were of the 
congregation of the Nazarenes ; and a subhme and unearthly emo- 
tion had not, indeed, quelled their awe, but it had robbed awe of 
fear. They had long believed, according to the error of the early 
Christians that the Last Day was at hand; they imagined now that 
the Day had come. 

"Woe! woe!" «ried, in a shriU. and piercing voice, the elder al 
their head. "Behold! the Lord descendeth to judgment! He 
maketh fire come down from heaven in the sight of men ! Woe ! 
woe J ye strong and mighty ! Woe to ye of the fasces and the purple ! 
Woe to the idolator and the worshiper of the beast! Woe to ye 
who pour forth the blood of saints, and gloat over the death pangs 
of the sons of God! Woe to the harlot of the sea! — woe! woe I" 



THE CANDID MAN. 245 



And with a loud and deep chorus, the troop chanted forth along 
the wild horrors of the air, — "Woe to the harlot of the sea! — woe I 
.Yoe!" 

The Nazarenes paced slowly on, their torches still flickering in 
the storm, their voices still raised in raenace and solemn warning, 
tiU, lost amid the windings in the street, the darkness of the atmos- 
phere and the silence of death again fell over the scene. 



The Candid Man. 

One bright, laughing day, I threw down my book an hour sooner 
than usual, and saUied out with a hghtness of foot and exhilaration 
of spirit, to which I had long been a stranger. I had just sprung 
over a stile that led into one of those green, shady lanes which 
makes us feel that the old poets who loved and hved for nature 
were right in calling our island "the merry England," when I was 
startled by a short quick bark on one side of the hedge. I turned 
sharply round; and, seated upon the sward was a man, apparently 
of the peddler profession ; a great deal-box was lying open before 
him; a few articles of linen and female dress were scattered round, 
and the man himself appeared earnestly occupied in examining the 
deeper recesses of his itinerant warehouse. A small black terrier 
flew toward me with no friendly growl. 

"Down," said I, "aU strangers are not foes, though the Enghsh 
generally think so." 

The man hastily looked up; perhaps he was struck with the 
quaintness of my remonstrance to his canine companion; for, 
touching his hat civilly, he said, "The dog, sir, is very quiet; he 
ordy means to give vie the alarm by giving it to you; for dogs seem 
to have no despicable insight into human nature, and know well 
that the best of us may be taken by surprise." 

"You are a moralist," said I, not a Httle astonished in my turn 
by such an address from such a person. "I could not have expected 



246 [ LEISUEE HOURS. 



to stumble upon a philosopher so easily. Have you any wares in 
your box likely to suit me? If so, I should like to purchase of so 
moraHzing a vendor !" 

"No, sir," said the seeming peddler, smiling, and yet at the 
same time hurrying his goods into his box, and carefully turning 
the key. "No, sir, I am only a bearer of other men's goods; my 
morals are aU that I can caU my own, and those I wlU seU you at 
your own price." 

"You are candid, my friend," said I, "and your frankness, 
alone, would be inestimable in this age of deceit, and country of 
hypocrisy. " 

"Ah, sir!" said my new acquaintance, "I see already that you 
are one of those persons who look to the dark side of things ; for 
my part, I think the present age the best that ever existed, and our 
country the most virtuous in Europe. " 

"I congratulate you, Mr. Optimist, on your opinions," quoth I; 
"but your observation leads me to suppose that you are both an 
historian and a traveler; am I right?" 

"Why," answered the box-bearer, "I have dabbled a httle in 
books, and wandered not a httle among men. I am just returned 
from Germany, and am now going to my friends in London. I 
am charged with this box of goods. God send me the luck to 
dehver it safe ! " 

"Amen," said I; "and with that prayer and this trifle I wish 
you a good morning." 

"Thank you a thousand times, sir, for both," rephed the man, 
"but do add to your favors by informing me of the right road to the 
town of ." 



"I am going in that direction myself; if you cnoose to accom- 
pany me part of the way, I can insure your not missing the rest. " 

"Your honor is too good!" returned he of the box, rising., and 
slinging his fardel across him; "it is but seldom that a gentleman 
of your rank wiU condescend to walk three paces with one of mine. 
You smile, sir ; perhaps you think I should not class myself among 
gentlemen ; and yet I have as good a right to the name as most of 



THE CANDID MAN 247 



the set. I belong to no trade, I follow no calling; I rove where I 
hst, and rest where I please ; in short, I know no occupation but 
my indolence, and no law but my will. Now, sir, may I not call 
myself a gentleman?" 

"Of a surety," quoth I. "You seem to me to hold a middle 
rank between a half -pay captain and the king of the gypsies." 

"You have it, sir," rejoined my companion with a shght laugh. 
He was now by my side, and as we walked on, I had leisure more 
minutely to examine him. He was a middle-sized and rather 
athletic man ; apparently about the age of thirty-eight. He was 
attired in a dark blue frock-coat, which was neither shabby nor 
new, but ill-made, and much too large and long for its present 
possessor; beneath this was a faded velvet waistcoat, that had 
formerly, hke the Persian ambassador's tunic, "blushed with 
crimson and blazed with gold, " but which might now have been 
advantageously exchanged in Monmouth Street for the lawful sum 
of two shiLhngs and ninepence ; under this was an inner vest of 
the cashmere shawl pattern, which seemed much too new for the 
rest of the dress. Though his shirt was of a very unwashed hue, I 
remarked, with some suspicion, that it was of a very respectable 
fineness; and a pin, which might be paste, or could be diamond, 
peeped below a tattered and dingy black kid stock, like a gipsy's 
eye beneath her hair. 

His trousers were of a light gray, and the justice of Providence, 
or of the tailor, avenged itself upon them for the prodigal length 
bestowed upon their iU-assorted companion, the coat; for they 
were much too tight for the muscular hmbs they concealed, and, 
rising far above the ankle, exhibited the whole of a thick Welling- 
ton boot, which was the very picture of Italy upon the map. 

The face of the man was commonplace and ordinary — one sees 
a hundred such every day in Fleet Street or on 'Change, — the 
features were small, irregular, and somewhat flat; yet when you 
looked twice upon the countenance, there was something marked 
and singular in the expression, which fully atoned for the common- 
ness of the features. The right eye turned away from the left in 



248 LEISURE HOUHS., 



that watchful squint which seemed constructed on the same con 
siderate plan as those Irish guns, made for shooting round a corner; 
his eyebrows were large and shaggy, and greatly resembled bramble 
bushes, in which his fox-hke eyes had taken refuge. Bound these 
vulpine retreats was a labyrinthean maze of those wrinkles, vul- 
garly called crow's feet; deep, intricate, and intersected, they seemed 
for all the world hke the web of a chancery suit. Singular enough, 
the rest of the countenance was perfectly smooth and unindented; 
even the lines from the nostrils to the corners of the mouth, usually 
so deeply traced in men of his age, were scarcely more apparent 
than in a boy of eighteen. 

His smile was frank, his voice clear and hearty, his address 
open, and much superior to his apparent rank of life, claiming 
somewhat of equahty, yet conceding a great deal of respect ; but, 
notwithstanding all these certain favorable points, there was a sly 
and cunning expression in his perverse and vigilant eye and all the 
wrinJded demesnes in its vicinity, that made me mistrust even 
while I liked my companion: perhaps, indeed, he was too frank, 
too famihar, too (legale, to be quite natural. Your honest men 
soon buy reserve by experience. Eogues are communicative and 
open, because confidence and openness costs them nothing. To 
finish the description of my new acquaintance, I should observe 
chat there was something in his countenance which struck me as 
not whoUy unfamiliar; it was one of those which we have not, in 
ah human probability, seen before, and yet which (perhaps from 
their very commonness) we imagine we have encountered a hundred 
times. 

We walked on briskly, notwithstanding the warmth of the day; 
in fact, the air was so pure, the grass so green, the laughing noon- 
day so full of the hum, the motion and the life of creation, that 
the feeling produced was rather that of freshness and invigoration 
than of languor and heat. 

"We have a beautiful country, sir," said my hero of the box. 
"It is like walking through a garden, after the more sterile and 
sullen features of the continent. A pure mind, sir, loves the coun- 



THE CANDID MAN. 249 



try; for my part, I am always disposed to burst out in thanks- 
giving to Providence when I behold its works, and, hke the valleys 
in the Psalm, I am ready to laugh and sing." 

"An enthusiast," said I, "as well as a philosopher! perhaps, 
(and I beheve it likely) I have the honor of addressing a poet, also?" 

"Why, sir," rephed the man, "I have made verses in my Hfe; 
in short, there is little I have not done, for I was always a lover of 
variety; but, perhaps, your honor will let me return the suspicion. 
A.re you not a favorite of the muse?" 

"I cannot say that I am," said I. "I value myself only on my 
common sense — the very antipodes to genius, you know, according 
to the orthodox belief." 

"Common sense!" repeated my companion, -with a singular 
and meaning smile, and a twinkle with his left eye. "Common 
sense! Ah, that is not m.y forte, sir. You, I dare say, are one of 
those gentlemen whom it is very difficult to take in, either passively 
or actively, by appearance, or in act? For my part, I liave been a 
dupe all my life — -a child might cheat me ! I am the most unsus- 
picious person in the world." 

"Too candid by half," thought I. "This man is certainly a 
rascal; but what is that to me? I shall never see him again," and 
true to my love of never losing an opportunity of ascertaining indi- 
vidual character, I observed that I thought such an acquaintance 
very valuable, especially if he were in trade; it was a pity, there- 
fore, for my sake, that my companion had infonned me that he fol- 
lowed no calling. 

"Why, sir," said he, "I a)?i occasionally in employment; my 
nominal profession is that of a broker. I buy shawls and hand- 
kerchiefs of poor countesses, and retail them to rich plebeians. I 
fit up new-married couples with linen at a more moderate rate than 
the shops, and procure the bridegroom his present of jewels at 
forty per cent less than the jewelers; nay, I am as friendly to an 
intrigue as a marriage; and, when I cannot sell my jewels, I wiU 
my good offices. A gentleman so handsome as your honor may 
have an affair upon your hands; if so, you may rely upon my 



250 LEISURE HOURS. 



secrecy and zeal. In short, I am an innocent, good-natured fellow, 
who does harm to no one or nothing, and good to every one for 
something." 

"I admire your code," quoth I, "and whenever I want a 
mediator between Venus and myself, I will employ you. Have 
you always followed your present idle profession, or were you 
brought up to any other?" 

"I was intended for a silversmith," answered my friend, "but 
Providence wiUed it otherwise. They taught me from childhood to 
repeat the Lord's prayer. Heaven heard me, and dehvered me from 
temptation, — there is, indeed, something terribly seducing in the 
face of a silver spoon." 

"Well," said I, "you are the honestest knave that ever I met, 
and one would trust you with one's purse, for the ingenuousness 
with which you own you would steal it. Pray, think you, is 
it probable that I have ever had the happiness of meeting you 
before? I cannot help fancying so — as yet I have never been in 
the watch-house or the Old Bailey, my reason teUs me that I must 
be mistaken." 

"Not at all, sir," returned my worthy; "I remember you weU, 
for I never saw a face hke yours that I did not remember. I had 
the honor of sipping some British liquors in the same room with 
yourself one evening ; you were then in company with my friend, 
Mr. Gordon." 

"Ha!" said I, "I thank you for the hint. I now remember 
weU, by the same token, that he told me you were the most 
ingenious gentleman in England, and that you had a happy pro- 
pensity of mistaking other people's possessions for your own. I 
congratulate myself upon so desirable an acquaintance." 

My friend smiled with his usual blandness, and made me a low 
bow of acknowledgment before he resumed : 

"No doubt, sir. Mr. Gordon informed you right. I flatter 
myself few understand better than myself the art of appropriation, 
though I say it who should not say it. I deserve the reputation I 
have acquired, sir: I have always had ill-fortune to struggle against, 



THE CANDID MAN. 251 



and always have remedied it by two virtues — ^perseverance and 
ingenuity. To give you an idea of my ill-fortiTne, know that I have 
been taken up twenty-three times on suspicion; of my persever- 
ance, know that I have been taken up justly ; and, of my ingenuity, 
know that I have been twenty-three times let ofJ, because there wa? 
not a tittle of legal evidence against me !" 

"I venerate your talents, Mr. Jonson," rephed I, "if by the 
name of Jonson it pleaseth you to be called, although, hke the 
heathen deities, I presume that you have many titles, whereof some 
are more grateful to your ears than others." 

"Nay," answered the man of two virtues, "I am never ashameJ 
of my name ; indeed, I have never done anything to disgrace me, 
I have never indulged in low company nor profligate debauchery; 
whatever I have executed by way of profession has been done in a 
superior and artist-like manner, not in the rude, bunghng fashion 
of other adventurers. Moreover, I have ahvays had a taste for 
polite literature, and went once as an apprentice to a publishing 
bookseller, for the sole jDui-pose of reading the new works before 
they came out. In fine, I have never neglected any opportunity of 
improving my mind ; and the worst that can be said against me is : 
that I have remembered my catechism, and taken all possible pains 
to learn and labor truly to get my living, and to do my duty in that 
state of hfe to which it has pleased Providence to call me." 

"I have often heard," answered I, "that there is honor among 
thieves ; I am happy to learn from you that there is also religion ; 
your baptismal sponsors must be proud of so diligent a godson." 

"They ought to be, sir," replied Mr. Jonson, "for I gave the?n 
the first specimens of my address; the story is long, but, if you 
ever give me an opportunity, I will relate it. " 

"Thank you," said I; "meanwhile I must wish you good- 
morning ; your way now lies to the right. I return you my best 
thanks for your condescension, in accompanying so undistinguished 
an individual as myself." 

"Oh, never mention it, your honor," rejoined Mr. Jonson. 
*'I am always too happy to walk with a gentleman of your 



252 LEISUEE HOURS. 



'common sense.' Parewell, sir; may we meet again!" So saying, 
Mr. Jonson struck into his new road, and we parted. 

I went home, musing on my adventure, and dehghted with my 
adventurer. When I was about three paces from the door of my 
home, I was accosted in a most pitiful tone, by a poor old beggar, 
apparently in the last extreme of misery and disease. Notwith- 
standing my pohtical economy, I was moved into alms-giving by a 
spectacle so wretched. I put my hand into my pocket, my purse 
was gone; and, on searching the other, lo! my handkerchief, my 
pocket-book, and a gold locket, which had belonged to Madame 
D'Anville, had vanished, too. 

One does not keep company with men of two virtues and 
receive eomphments upon one's common sense, for nothing! 

The beggar still continued to importune me. 

"Give him some food and half a crown," said 1 to my landlady. 

Two hours afterward she came up to me: "Oh, sir! my sUver 
teapot — tJiat villain, the be<j(iar !" 

A light flashed upon me. "Ah, Mr. Job Jonson! Mr. Job 
Jonson!" cried I, in an indescribable rage; "out of my sight, 
woman! out of my sight!" I stopped short ; my speech failed me. 
Never tell me that shame is the companion of guilt! The sinful 
knave is never so ashamed of himself as is the innocent fool who 
suffers by him. 





"beautifci-. sea Eir.Ds wirEr.!: have you 

BEZN? 
ALL THE STORM THKOUGH, V^TiAT ;:IGHTS 
HAVt; YOU SEENV" 



WHITE WINGS. 



"White "Wings. 

The night was stormy — and wild and gray 
The dawn came over the hills to-day — 
Eough is the morn ng — and torn the sky 
Where the wings of the wild West rush by, 
And strange lights g'iramer on spar and sail, 
And the sea is wonderful, weird, and pale. 

The great gulls sweep over shining beach, 
Over rocky headland and sandy reach. 
To the sad salt marsh where the sea-birds meet. 
With their wide white wings and their dainty feet, 
To their hidden nests, in the cliff's breast white. 
Out of man's reach as out of his sight. 

Beautiful sea birds where have you been? 
All the storm through, what sights have you seen? 
Did you fly in the face of the wind and scream 
Till your cry was mixed with some woman's dream. 
And she started from sleep in the doubtful light 
To pray for her man and his boat last night? 

The tale of the storm is not told by these 

Bright birds that are glad of the angry seas : 

The tale is told by the wreck-strewn shore. 

And the children whose fathers come home no more; 

And the hearts joy-thrilled, and the hearts pain-tossed. 

For the loved ones saved, and the loved ones lost. 

And I but guess, with a hand in mine. 

Why the storm should come when the sun might shine, 



256 LEISURE HOUES. 



Why all the skies are not always blue, 

And all men loving, and all women true. 

Why for others such sorrow and storm should be. 

While nothing but joy comes to you and me. 



Gentle Hands. 



When and where, it matters not now to relate — but once upon 
a time, as I was passing through a thinly peopled district of coun- 
try, night came down upon me, almost unawares. Being on foot, 
I could not hope to gain the village toward which my steps were 
directed, until a late hour; and I therefore preferred seeking shel- 
ter and a night's lodging at the first humble dwelling that presented 
itself. 

Dusky twilight was giving place to deeper shadows, when I 
found myself in the vicinity of a dweUing, from the small uncur- 
tained windows of which the light shone with a pleasant promise 
of good cheer and comfort. The house stood within an enclosure, 
and a short distance from the road along which I was moving with 
wearied feet. Turning aside, and passing through the ill-hung 
gate, I approached the dwelling. Slowly the gate swung on its 
wooden hinges, and the rattle of its latch, in closing, did not dis- 
turb the air until I had nearly reached the little porch in front of 
the house, in which a slender girl, who had noticed my entrance, 
stood awaiting my arrival. 

A deep, quick bark answered, almost like an echo, the sound 
of the shutting gate, and, sudden as an apparition, the form of an 
immense dog loomed in the door- way. At the instant when he 



GENTLE HANDS. 257 



was about to spring, a light hand was laid upon his shaggy neck 
and a low word spoken. 

"Gro in, Tiger," said the girl, not in a voice of authority, yet in 
her gentle tones was the consciousness that she would be obeyed; 
and, as she spoke, she hghtly bore upon the animal with her hand, 
and he turned away, and disappeared within the dwelling. "Who's 
that?" A rough voice asked the question; and now a heavy-look- 
ing man took the dog's place in the door. 

"How far is it to G '?" I asked, not deeming it best to say, 

in the beginning, that I sought a resting-place for the night. 

"To G " growled the mau, but not so harshly as at first. 

"It's good six miles from here." 

"Along distance; and I'm a stranger, and on foot," said I. 
"If you can make room for me until morning, I will be very thank- 
ful." 

I saw the girl's hand move quickly up his arm, until it rested 
on his shoulder, and now she leaned to him stiU closer. 

"Come in. We'U try what can be done for you." There was 
a change in the man's voice that made me wonder. 

I entered a large room, in which blazed a brisk fire. Before 
the fire sat two stout lads, who turned upon me their heavy eyes, 
with no very welcome greeting. A middle-aged woman was stand- 
ing at a table and two children were amusing themselves with a 
kitten on the floor. 

"A stranger, mother," said the man who had given me so rude 
a greeting at the door; "and he wants us to let him stay all night." 

The woman looked at me doubtingly for a few moments, and 
then replied coldly — 

"We don't keep a public-house." 

"I am aware of that, ma'am," said I; "but night has overtaken 
me, and it's a long way yet to ," 

"Too far for a tired man to go on foot," said the master of 
the house, kindly, "so it's no use talking about it, mother; we 
must give him a bed." 

So unobtrusively that I scarcely noticed the movement, the 



258 LEISUKE HOURS. 



girl had drawn to the woman's side. What she said to her I did 
not hear, for the brief words were uttered in a low voice ; but I 
noticed, as she spoke, one small, fair hand rested on the woman's 
hand. Was there magic in that gentle touch? The woman's re- 
pulsive aspect changed into one of kindly welcome, and she said : 

"Yes, it's a long way to G . I guess we can find a place 

for him." 

Many times more, during that evening, did I observe the 
magic power of that hand and voice — the one gentle, yet potent, 
as the other. 

On the next morning, breakfast being over, I was preparing to 
take my departure, when my host informed me that if I would wait 

for half an hour he would give me a ride in his wagon to G , 

as business required liim to go there. I was very weU pleased to 
accept of the invitation. In due time, the farmer's wagon was 
driven into the road before the house, and I was invited to get in. 
I noticed the horse as a rough-looking Canadian pony, with a cer- 
tain air of stubborn endurance. As the farmer took his seat by 
my side, the family came to the door to see us off. 

"Dick!" said the farmer in a peremptory voice, giving the rein 
a quick jerk as he spoke. 

But Dick moved not a step. 

"Dick! you vagabond! get up." And the- farmer's whip 
cracked sharj)ly by the pony's ear. 

It availed not, however, the second appeal. Dick stood firmly 
disobedient. Next the whip was brought down upon him with an 
impatient hand; but? the pony only reared up a httle. Fast and 
sharp the strokes were next dealt to the number of half-a-dozen. 
The man might as well have beaten his wagon, for aU his end was 
gained. 

A stout lad now came out into the road, and catching Dick by the 
bridle, jerked him forward, using, at the same time, the customary 
language oh such occasions, but Dick met this new ally with in- 
creased stubbornness, planting his forefeet more firmly, and at a 
sharper angle with the ground. The impatient boy now struck the 



GENTLE HANDS. 259 



pony on the side of his head with his chnched hand, and jerked 
cruelly at his bridle. It availed nothing, however: Dick was not to 
be wrought upon by any such arguments. 

"Don't do so, John!" I turned my head as the maiden's sweet 
voice reached my ear. She was passing through the gate into the 
road, and, in the next moment, had taken hold of the lad and 
drawn him away from the animal. No strength was exerted in this ; 
she took hold of his arm, and he obeyed her wish as readily as if 
he had no thought beyond her gratification. 

And now that soft hand was laid gently on the pony's neck, 
and a single low word spoken. How instantly were the tense mus- 
cles relaxed — how quicldy the stubborn air vanished. 

"Poor Dick!" said the maiden, as she stroked his neck hghtly, 
or softly patted it with a child-like hand. 

"Now, go along, you provoking fellow!" she added, in a half- 
chiding, yet affectionate voice, as she drew up the bridle. The 
pony turned toward her, and rubbed his head against her arm for 
an instant or two; then, pricking up his ears, he started off at a 
light, cheerful trot, and went on his way as freely as if no silly 
crotchet had ever entered his stubborn brain, 

"What a wonderful power thiit hand possesses!" said I, speak- 
ing to my companion, as we rode away. 

He looked at me for a moment as if my remark had occasioned 
surprise. Then a hght came into his countenance, and he said, 
briefly, — 

"She's good! Everybody and everything loves her." 

Was that, indeed, the secret of her power? Was the quahty 
of her soul perceived in the impression of her hand, even by brute 
beasts! The father's explanation was, doubtless, the true one. 
Yet, have I, ever since wondered, and still do wonder, at the 
potency which lay in that maiden's magic touch. I have seen 
something of the same power, showing itself in the loving and the 
good, but never to the extent as instanced in her, whom, for want 
of a better name, I must still call "Gentle hand." 



260 LEISURE HOUES. 



Old Runa-ways 

Its Billy's old whistle for you, Tom — 

Don't look at a fellow like that; 
Just give the professor the slip, Tom, 

Toss out of the window your hat. 
Once more we'll play truant together, 

"Cut" books, "skip" the school for all day — 
Eheumatics? A lawsuit? fudge, Tom! 

By Jove! you are getting gray! 

Grandfathers? Of course, but no matter — 

To-day we're off on a lark; 
And we'll "grub" as of old for our dinners, 

And mind getting home before dark. 
How can we help skipping to- day, Tom, 

Unless we are old as the hills? 
And even the hills go a skipping. 

The hoary, bald-headed old hills. 

0, the perch will be hungry to-day, Tom — 
Hear the robins! and don't you forget 

Your sling shot and bullets ; And, say, Tom, 
Have you a pollywog net? 

We'll follow the old river road, Tom, 

Then off through the swamp just to find 
The trailing arbutus, . . . Why, wade, Tom, 

Who thought that you'd ever mind 
A bit of deep wading for her, Tom? 

Just think of her smile. That will make 
Wet trousers and cramps and a "licking" 

Sweet martyrdom, all for her sake. 



OLD RUNAWAYS. 261 



Of course, I forgot. Please forgive me— 

You know my old blundering way. 
0, yes, we'll go round by the graveyard— 

The headstones are slanting and gray- 
And it won't be just cheerful to see 'em 

A watching us through the old wall. 
Like truants shut up in a corner, 

With never a recess at all. 

It's been a hard quarter, this last one. 

Long lessons, cross masters, no fun. 
And somehow we don't win the prizes, 

And here school is just about done, 
M tke haste and shut up that ledger. 

Is nothing a calling but me? 
0, once I had only to whistle, 

And out of the window you'd be. 

Can it be we have lived to an April 
That finds as with pulses so cool 

We've never a wish to play truant. 
Never a wish to break rule? 

Ah, then its high time Tom and Billy 
Had done with going to school. 






262 LEISURE HOURS. 



Parents. 

Although the attainment of mature age takes away the obHga- 
tion of obedience to parents, as well as the right of dependence upon 
them, it should lessen in no way a young man's deference, respect, 
or affection. For twenty-one years, or from the earhest period of 
infancy, through childhood and youth, up to mature age, his parents 
have felt and thought, and labored for him. They have watched 
over his pillov/, anxiously, in sickness ; they have, with the most 
unselfish love, earnestly sought his good in everything, even to the 
extent of much self-denial; and can he now offer them less than 
deference, respect, and affection ? No ; surely no young man will 
withhold this. 

Let us show you a picture. Do you see that feeble infant 
asleep on its mother's bosom? How helpless it lies ! How depend- 
ent it is upon others for everything ! The neglect of a moment 
might cause some fatal injury to a being so entirely powerless. 
But that mother's love neither slumbers nor sleeps. It is ever 
around the fragile creature committed to her care, and she is ready 
to guard its Hfe with her own. You once lay thus in your mother's 
arms, and she nourished your helpless infancy thus at her bosom. 
She watched over you, loved you, protected and defended you ; and 
aU was from love, — deep, pure, fervent love, — the first love and the 
most imselfish love that ever has or ever will bless you in this life, 
for it asked for and expected no return. A mother s love! — it is the 
most perfect reflection of the love of Grod ever thrown back from 
the mirror of a human heart. 

Here is another picture. A mother sits in grief, and her boy, 
now no longer an infant, stands in sullen disobedience by her side. 
She has striven to correct his faults for his own good, and in love 
repTOved him ; but he would not regard her admonitions. Again 
and again she has sought, by gentle urgings, to direct him to 

8 



PARENTS. 263 



good; but all has been in vain, and she now resorts to pimisliment 
that is far more painful to her than to her clnld. The scene is changed. 
See where she sits now, alone, bitterly weeping. There is an 
image in her mind, and but one, that obscures all the rest ; it is the 
image of her suffering child — suffering by her hand ! Her breast 
labors heavily, her heart is oppressed — she feels deep anguish of 
spirit. But she has done her duty, painful though it has been, 
and that sustains her. You were once a boy Hke that; and thus 
your own mother has grieved over your disobedience, and felt the 
same bitterness of spirit. And love for you was the cause. Can 
you ever forget this ? 

Do you see that darkened chamber? By the bed of sickness 
sits a pale watcher, and there are tears upon her cheek. Day and 
night, for nearly a week, has she sat by the bed, or moved with 
noiseless feet about the room. She has not taken off her garments 
during the time; nor has she joined the family at their regular 
meals. Wlio is the object of all this deep sohcitude? It is her 
child. The hand of sickness is uj)on him, and he has drawn near 
to the gates of death. In her sohcitude she forgets even herself. 
She has but one thought, and that is for her offspring. Her love, 
her care, her anxious hopes are at length rewarded. The destroyer 
passes by and leaves her her child. Thus has your mother watched, 
day by day and night by night, beside your couch of sickness. 
Never forget this, young man. Forget every other obhgation, but 
never forget how much you owe your mother! You can never 
know a thousandth part of what she has endured for your sake ; and 
now, in her old age, aU she asks is that you wiU love her — not 
with the love she stiU bears to you ; she does not expect that — and 
care for her, that hfe's sunshine may still come through the win- 
dows and over the threshold of her dwelling. 

And with no less of respect and affection should a young man 
think of his father. Not until his own life-trials come on will he 
fully understand how much he owes his father. It is no hght task 
Avhich a man takes upon himself — that of sustaining, by his single 
efforts, a whole family, and sustaining them in comfort, and per- 



264 LEISUEB HOURS. 



haps in luxury. You have an education that enables you to take a 
respectable position in society; you have a groundwork of good 
principles ; habits of industry ; in fact, aU that a young man need ask 
for in order that he may rise in the world ; and for these you are 
indebted to your father. To give you such advantages cost him 
labor, self-denial, and much anxious thought. Many times, during 
the struggle to sustain his family, has he been pressed down with 
worldly difficulties, and almost ready to despair. He has seen his 
last doUar, it may be, leave his hand, without knowing certainly 
where the next was to come from. But still his love for his children 
has urged him on, and by new and more vigorous efforts he has 
overcome the difficulties by which he was surrounded. 

A young man should think often of these things, and let them 
influence his conduct to his parents. There wiU come a time in life 
when such thoughts will force themselves upon him; but these 
thoughts may come too late. 

Toward parents the deportment should always be deferential 
and kind. A young man, who properly reflects upon the new rela- 
tion now existing between them and himself, will naturaUy change 
his manner of address, and be far more guarded than he was before 
he arrived of age, lest he say or do anything that might cause them 
to feel that he now considered himself beyond their control. When 
they advise, he should consider well what they say; and, if compelled 
to differ from them, he should carefully explain the reason, and 
show truly his regret at not being able to act from their judgment 
of the matter. As a general thing, however, he will find their ad- 
vice better than the counsels of his own scarcely fledged reason, and 
he will do weU seriously to deliberate upon it before taking his own 
course. 

Above aU,let no unkind word ever pass your Hps. Nothing 
stings so, nothing so deeply wounds the heart of a parent, as harsh 
words from his children who have grown up and become men and 
women. Almost as bad as this is neglect. 

The older your father and mother grow, the narrower becomes 
the sphere of their hopes and wishes untU, at length, aU thought 



PARENTS. 26[ 



and all affections are centered on their cliildren. But while this is 
going on, the children's minds are hecoming more and more ab- 
sorbed in the cares, duties, and new affections of Hfe, until their 
parents are almost forgotten. Forewarned of this tendency, let 
every one strive against it, lest he wound by neglect, either seeming 
or real, a heart that has loved him from hfe's earhest dawn up to 
the present moment. 

But not alone in deference, respect, and marks of affection He 
the Hmits of a young man's duties to his parents. He should en- 
deavor to take up and bear for them, if too heavy for their dechning 
strength, some of the burdens that oppress them. He should particu- 
larly consider his father, and see if the entire support of the family 
that yet remains upon his hands does not tax his efforts too far; 
and if such be the case, he should deny himself almost anything, in 
order to render some aid. For years, he has been receiving aU 
that he required, and it is now but fair that he should begin to 
make some return. 

How often do we see two or three sons, all in the receipt of 
good salaries, spending their money in seh-indulgences, while their 
father is toihng on for his younger children, broken in health, per- 
haps disappointed in his worldly prospects, and almost despairing 
in regard to the final result of aU his efforts ! They come and go, and 
never think that anything is due from them. It does not occur to 
them that if each were to deny himself the gratification of his desires to 
the extent of one hundred dollars a year, and the aggregate amount 
were placed in their father's hands to aid in supporting the family, it 
would take a mountain of care from his shoulders. Why is it that 
so many young men forget their duty in this important matter? 
One would think that no prompter was required here to remind 
them of their part. But it is not so. On the contrary, it is a thing 
of such rare occurrence for a son to practice self-denial for the sake 
of his parents, that, wherever it is seen, it forms the subject of 
remark. 

We often see parents who have enjoyed but few advantages 
themselves, and who, in consequence, are compelled to occupy lower 



266 tEISUKE HOITKS. 



and more laborious positions in the world, denying themselves 
many comforts and all the luxuries of hfe, in order to give their 
children the very best education possible for them to provide. We 
see these children growing up, and too often the first return they 
make is in the form of invidious comparisons between themselves 
and the parents to whom they owe almost everything ! In a httle 
while they step into the world as men, and, becoming absorbed in 
its pursuits from various selfish ends, seem to forget entirely that 
their parents are still toihng on, enfeebled by years and over-exer- 
tion for their sakes, and with the very sweat of their time-worn 
brows digging out from the hard earth, so to speak, the scanty food 
and raiment required to sustain nature. Ah ! but this is a melan- 
choly sight. Could anything teU the sad tale of man's declension 
from good so eloquently as this? 

It is plainly the duty of every yomig man, whose parents are 
poor and compelled to labor beyond their strength, to aid them to 
the extent of his ability. They have borne the burden for him for 
many years. From their toil and self-denial he now has the means 
of rising higher in the world than they had the abihty ever to rise ; 
but he is unjust and ungrateful if, in his eager efforts to advance 
too rapidly, he forget and neglect them. Nothing can excuse con- 
duct so unnatural, so cruel. 



The Spider and the Bee. 

Upon the highest corner of a large window there dwelt a certain 
spider, swollen up to the first magnitude by the destruction of infin- 
ite numbers of fhes, whose spoils lay scattered before the gates of his 
palace, like human bones before the cave of some giant. The 
avenues to his castle were guarded with turnpikes and palisadoes. 
After you had passed several courts you came to the center, 
wherein you might behold the constable himself, in his own lodg- 
ings, which had windows fronting to each avenue, and ports to 



THE SPIDER AND THE BEE. 267 



sally out upon aU occasions of prey or defense. In this mansion lie 
had for some time dwelt in peace and plenty, without danger to his 
person by swallows from above, or to his palace by brooms from 
below, when it was the pleasure of fortune to conduct thither a 
wandering bee, to whose curiosity a broken pane in the glass had 
discovered itself, and in he went, where, expatiating a wliile, he 
at last happened to ahght upon one of the outer waUs of the spider's 
citadel, which, yielding to the unequal weight, sunk down to the very 
foundation. Thrice he endeavored to force his passage, and thrice 
the center shook. The spider within, feehng the terrible convul- 
sion, supposed at first that nature was approaching to her final dis- 
solution, or else that Beelzebub, with all his legions, was come to 
revenge the death of many thousands of his subjects whom his 
enemy had slain and devoured. However, he at length valiantly 
resolved to issue forth and meet his fate. Meanwhile the bee had 
acquitted himself of his toUs, and posted securely at some distance, 
was employed in cleansing his wings, and disengaging them from the 
rugged remnants of the cobweb. By this time the spider was adven- 
tured out, when beholding the chasms, the ruins and dilapidations 
of his fortress, he was very near at his wit's end; he stormed and 
swore hke a madman, and swelled till he was ready to burst. At 
length, casting his eye upon the bee, and wisely gathering causes 
from events (for they knew each other by sight), "A plague split 
you," said he, "for a giddy puppy; is it you, "vvith a vengeance, that 
has made this htter here? Could you not look before you? Do 
you think I have nothing else to do but to mend and repair after 
you?" 

"Good words, friend," said the bee (having now pruned himself, 
and being disposed to be droll), "I'll give you my hand and word 
to come near your kennel no more; I was never in such a con- 
founded pickle since I was born." 

"Sirrah," replied the spider, "if it were not for breaking an old 
custom in our family, never to stir abroad against an enemy, I 
should come and teach you better manners." 

"I pray have patience," said the bee, "or you'U spend your 



268 LEISURE HOUES. 



substance, and for aught I see, you may stand in need of it all 
toward the repair of your house." 

"Eogue, rogue," rephed the spider, "yet methinks you should 
have more respect to a person whom all the world allows to be so 
much your betters." 

"By my troth," said the bee, "the comparison will amount to 
a very good jest; and you will do me a favor to let me know th« 
reasons that all the world is pleased to use in so hopeful a dispute. " 

At this the spider, having swelled himself into the size and 
posture of a disputant, began his argument in the true spirit of 
controversy, with resolution to be heartily scurrilous and angry; to 
urge on his own reasons without the least regard to the answers or 
objections of his opposite; and fully predetermined in his mind 
against all conviction. 

"Not to disparage myself," said he, "by the comparison with 
such a rascal, what art thou but a vagabond without house or home, 
without stock or inheritance? born to no possession of your own 
but a pair of wings and a drone-pipe. Your hvehhood is a univer- 
sal plunder upon nature ; a freebooter over fields and gardens ; and, 
for the sake of stealing, will rob a nettle as easily as a violet. 
Whereas, I am a domestic animal, furnished with a native stock 
within myself. This large castle (to show my improvements in the 
mathematics) is all built -with my own hands, and the materials 
extracted altogether out of my own person." 

"I am glad," answered the bee, "to hear you grant at least 
that I come honestly by my wings and my voice; for then, it seems, 
I am obhged to Heaven alone for my flights and my music; and 
Providence would never have bestowed on me two such gifts, with- 
out designing them for the noblest ends. I visit indeed all the 
flowers and blossoms of the field and garden ; but whatever 1 collect 
thence enriches myself, without the least injury to their beauty, 
their smell, or their taste. Now, for you and your skill in archi- 
tecture and other mathematics, I have httle to say: in that build- 
ing of yours there might, for aught I know, have been labor and 
method enough; but, by woeful experience for us both, it is too 



THE SPIDER AND THE BEE. 5^69 

plain, the materials are naught ; and I hope you ■will henceforth 
take -warning, and consider duration and matter, as well as 
method and art. You boast indeed of being obhged to no other 
creature, but of drawing and spinning out aU from yourself ; that 
is to say, if we may judge of the hquor in the vessel by what issues 
out, you possess a good plentiful store of dirt and poison in your 
breast; and though I would by no means lessen or disparage your 
genuine stock of either, yet I doubt you are somewhat obhged, for 
an increase of both, to a httle foreign assistance. Your inherent 
portion of dirt does not fail of acquisitions, by sweepings exhaled 
from below; and one insect furnishes you with a share of poison to 
destroy another. So that, in short, the question comes all to this : 
Whether is the nobler being of the two, that which by a lazy con- 
templation of four inches round, by an overweening pride, feeding 
and engendering on itself, turns all into excrement and venom, 
producing nothing at all but flybane and a cobweb; or that which, 
by a universal range, with long search, much study, true judgment, 
and distinction '^ thuat^»', brings home honey and wax?" 




270 LEISURE HOUKS. 



The Old Canoe. 

Where the rocks are gray and the shore is steep, 
And the waters below look dark and deep; 
Where the rugged pine, in its lonely pride. 
Leans gloomily over the murky tide, 
Where the reeds and rushes are long and lank. 
And the weeds grow thick on the winding bank ; 
Where the shadow is heavy the whole day through, 
There lies at its mooring the old canoe. 

The useless paddles are idly dropped, 

Like a sea birds wings that the storm has lopped, 

And crossed on the railing one o'er one. 

Like the folded hands when the work is done. 

While busily back and forth between 

The spider stretches his silvery screen, 

And the solemn owl with the dull "too-whoo," 

Settles down on the side of the old canoe. 

The stern half sunk in the slimy wave, 

Eots slowly away in its living grave, 

And the green moss creeps o'er its duU decay, 

Hiding its moldering dust away. 

Like the hand that plants o'er the tomb a flower, 

Or the ivy that mantles the falling tower ; 

While many a blossom of loveliest hue 

Springs up o'er the stern of the old canoe. 

The currentless waters are dead and still. 

But the twilight wind plays with the boat at will-. 

And lazily in and out again 

It floats the length of the rusty chain. 



THE OLD CANOE. 271 



Like the weary march of the hands of time, 
That meet and part at the noontide chime, 
And the shore is kissed at each turning anew, 
By the dripping bow of the old canoe. 

Oh! many a time with ceaseless hand, 

I have pushed it away from the pebbly strand, 

And paddled it down where the stream runs quick, 

Where the whirls are wild and the eddies are thick, 

And laughed as I leaned o'er' rocking side, 

And looked below in the broken tide. 

To see that the faces and boats were two, 

That were mirrored back from the old canoe. 

But now, as I lean o'er the crumbling side. 

And look below in the sluggish tide. 

The face that I see there is graver grown, 

And the laugh that I hear is a sober tone, 

And the hands that lent to the light skiff wings 

Have grown familiar with sterner things, 

But Hove to think of the hours that sped 

As I rocked where the whirls their white spray shed 

Ere the blossom waved or the green grass grew 

O'er the moldering stern of the old canoe. 




!72 LEISURE HOURS. 



Love of Life and Age. 

Age, that lessens the enjoyment of life, increases our desire of 
living. Those clangers, which, in the vigor of youth, we had 
learned to despise, assume new terrors as we grow old. Our cau- 
tion increasing as our years increase, fear becomes at last the pre- 
vailing passion of the mind, and the small remainder of life is taken 
up in useless efforts to keep off our end, or j)rovide for a continued 
existence. 

Strange contradiction in our nature, and to which even the 
wise are liable ! If I should judge of that part of life which lies 
before me by that which I have already seen, the prospect is hideous. 
Experience tells me that my past enjoyments have brought no real 
felicity, and sensation assures me that those I have felt are stronger 
than those which are yet to come. Yet experience and sensation 
in vain persuade; hope, more powerful than either, dresses out the 
distant prospect in fancied beauty ; some happiness in long perspec- 
tive, still beckons me to pursue ; and, like a losing gamester, every 
new disappointment increases my ardor to continue the game. 

Whence, then, is this increased love of life, which grows upon 
us with our years? Whence comes it, that we thus make greater 
efforts to preserve our existence at a period when it becomes scarce 
worth the keeping? Is it that nature, attentive to the preservation 
of mankind, increases our wish to live, while she lessens our enjoy- 
ments ; and, as she robs the senses of every pleasure, equips imag- 
ination in the spoil? Life would be insupportable to an old man 
who, loaded with infirmities, feared death no more than when in 
the vigor of manhood; the numberless calamities of decaying 
nature, and the consciousness of surviving every pleasure would at 
once induce him, with his own hand, to terminate the scene of 
misery, but happily the contempt of death forsakes him at a time 
when it could only be prejudicial, and life acquires an imaginary 
value in proportion as its real value is no more. 



» LOVE OF LIFE AND AGE. 273 

Chinwang the Chaste, ascending the throne of China, com- 
manded that all who were unjustly detained in prison during the 
preceding reigns should be set free. Among the number who came 
to thank their deliverer on this occasion there appeared a majestic 
old man, Avho, falling at the emperor's feet, addressed him as fol- 
lows: "Great father of China, behold a wretch now eighty-five 
years old, who was shut up in a dungeon at the age of twenty-two. 
I was imprisoned though a stranger to crime, or without being con- 
fronted by my accusers. I have now hved in sohtude and darkness 
for more than fifty years, and am grown famihar with distress. 
As yet, dazzled with the splendor of that sun to which you have 
restored me, I have been wandering the streets to find out some 
friend who would assist, or reheve, or remember me; but my 
friends, my family and relations are all dead, and I am forgotten. 
Permit me, then, Chinwang, to wear out the wretched remams 
of life in my former prison ; the waUs of my dungeon are to me 
more pleasing than the most splendid palace; I have not long to 
live, and shall be unhappy except I spend the rest of my daya 
where my youth was ]3assed — in that prison from whence you were 
pleased to release me." 

The old man's passion for confinement is similar to that we all 
have for life. We are habituated to the prison, we look round with 
discontent, are displeased with the abode, and yet the length of our 
captivity only increases our fondness for the cell. The trees we 
have planted, the houses we have built, or the posterity we have 
begotten, aU serve to bind us closer to earth, and embitter our part- 
ing. Life sues the young hke a new acqaintance; the companion, 
as yet unexhausted, is at once instructive and amusing; its com- 
pany pleases, yet for aU this it is but little regarded. To us, who 
are dechned in years, life appears like an old friend; its jests have 
been anticipated in former conversation; it has no new story to 
make us smile, no new improvement with which to surprise, yet 
still we love it; destitute of every enjoyment, still we love it; hus- 
band the wasting treasure with increasing frugahty, and feel all the 
poignancy of anguish in the fatal separation. 



274 LEISUEE HOURS. 



Sir Philip Mordaunfc was young, beautiful, sincere, brave, an 
Englishman. He had a complete fortune of his own, and the love 
of the king his master, which was equivalent to riches. Life opened 
all her treasures before him, and promised a long succession of 
future happiness. He came, tasted of the entertainment, but was 
disgusted even at the beginning. He professed an aversion to liv- 
ing, was tired of walking round the same circle; had tried every 
enjoyment, and found them all grow weaker at every repetition. 
" If hfe be in youth so displeasing," cried he to himself, "what will 
it appear when age comes on ? if it be at present indifferent, sure it will 
then be execrable." This thought embittered every reflection; till 
at last, with all the serenity of perverted reason, he ended the debate 
with a pistol! Had this self-deluded man been apprised that exist- 
ence grows more desirable to us the longer we exist, he would have 
then faced old age without shrinking; he would have boldly dared 
to live, and served that society by his future assiduity which he 
basely injured by his desertion. 



Happiness in Solitude. 

I can hardly tell you, sir, how concerned I have been to see 
that you consider me the most miserable of men. The world, no 
doubt, thinks as you do, and that also distresses me. Oh! why is 
not the existence I have enjoyed known to the whole universe! 
every one would wish to procure for himself a similar lot, peace 
would reign upon the earth, man would no longer think of injuring 
his fellows- and the wicked would no longer be found, for none 
would have an interest in being wicked. But what, then, did I enjoy 
when I was alone? Myself; the entire universe; aU that is; all 
that can be ; all that is beautiful in the world of sense ; all that is 
imaginable in the world of intellect. I gathered around me aU that 
could delight my heart ; my desires were the limit of my pleasures. 
No, never have the most voluptuous known such enjoyments; and 



HAPPINESS IN SOLITUDE. 



275 



I have derived a hundred times more happiness from my chimeras 
than they from their reahties. 

When my sufferings make me measure sadly the length of the 
night, and the agitation of fever prevents me from enjoying a 
single instant of sleep, I often divert my mind from my present 
state, in thinking of the various events of my hfe; and repentance, 
sweet recollections, regrets, emotions, help to make me for some 
moments forget my sufferings. What period do you think, sir, I 
recall most frequently and most wilhngly in my dreams? Not the 
pleasures of my youth, they were too rare, too much mingled with 
bitterness, and are now too distant. I recall the period of my seclu- 
sion, of my sohtary walks, of the fleeting but dehcious days that I 
have passed entirely by myself, with my good and simple house- 
keeper, with my beloved dog, my old cat, with the birds of the fields, 
the hinds of the forest, with all nature and her inconceivable 
Author. In getting up before the sun to contemplate its rising 
from my garden, when a beautiful day was commencuig, my first 
wish was that no letters or visits might come to disturb the charm. 
After having devoted the morning to various duties, that I fulfilled 
with pleasure, because I could have put them off to another time, 
I hastened to dine, that I might escape from importunate people, 
and insure a longer afternoon. Before one o'clock, even on the 
hottest days, I started in the heat of the sun with my faithful 
Achates, hastening my steps in the fear that some one would take 
possession of me before I could escape; but when once I could 
turn a certain corner, with what a beating heart, with what a 
flutter of joy, I began to breathe, as I felt that I was safe; 
and I said. Here now am I my own master for the rest of the 
day! I went on then at a more tranquil pace to seek some 
wild spot in the forest, some desert place, where nothing indicating 
the hand of man announced slavery and power — some refuge to 
whicli I could believe I was the first to penetrate, and where no 
wearying third could step in to interpose between Nature and me. 
It was there that she seemed to display before my eyes an ever new 
magnificence. The gold of the broom and the purple of the heath 



276 LEISUEE HOURS. 



struck my sight with a splendor that touched my heart. The 
majesty of the trees that covered me with their shadow, the dehcacy 
of the shrubs that flourished around me, the astonishing variety of 
the herbs and flowers that I crushed beneath my feet kept my mind 
in a continued alternation of observing and of admiring. This 
assemblage of so many interesting objects contending for my atten- 
tion, attracting me incessantly from one to the other, fostered my 
dreamy and idle humor, and often made me repeat to myself. No, 
"even Solomon- in all his glory was not arrayed hke one of these." 

The spot thus adorned could not long remain a desert to my 
imagination. I soon peopled it with beings after my own heart ; 
and dismissing opinion, prejudices, and all factitious passions, I 
brought to these sanctuaries of nature men worthy of inhabiting 
them. I formed with these a charming society, of which I did not 
feel myself unworthy. I made a golden age according to my fancy, 
and, filling up these bright days with all the scenes of my life that 
had left the tenderest recollections, and with all that my heart still 
longed for, I affected myself to tears over the true pleasures of 
humanity — pleasures so delicious, so pure, and yet so far from 
men ! Oh, if in these moments any ideas of Paris, of the age, and 
of my little author vanity disturbed my reveries, with what con- 
tempt I drove them instantly away, to give myself up entirely to 
the exquisite sentiments with which my soul was filled. Yet, in the 
midst of all this, I confess the nothingness of my chimeras would 
sometimes appear, and sadden me in a moment. If all my dreams 
had turned to reality, they would not have sufficed — I should still 
have imagined, dreamed, desired. I discovered in myself an inex- 
plicable void that nothing could have filled — a certain yearning of 
my heart toward another kind of happiness, of which I had no 
definite idea, but of which I felt the want. Ah, sir, this even 
was an enjoyment, for I was filled with a lively sense of what it 
was, and with a delightful sadness of which I should not have 
wished to be deprived. 

From the surface of the earth I soon raised my thoughts to 
all the beings of Nature, to the universal system of things, to the 



HAPPINESS IN SOLITUDE. 277 



incomprehensible Being who enters into all. Then, as my mind 
was lost in this immensity, I did not think, I did not reason, I did 
not philosophize. I felt, -with a kind of voluptuousness, as if 
bowed down by the weight of this universe ; 1 gave myself up with 
rapture to this confusion of grand ideas. I dehghted in imagina- 
tion to lose myself in space ; my heart, confined within the hmits 
of the mortal, found not room; I was stifled in the universe; I 
would have sprung into the infinite. I think that, could I have 
unveiled all the mysteries of nature, my sensations would have 
been less delicious than was this bewildering ecstacy, to which my 
mind abandoned itself without control, and which, in the excite- 
ment of my transports, made me sometimes exclaim, " Oh, Great 
Being! oh, Great Being!" without being able to say or think more. 
Thus glided on in a continued raptm-e the most charming 
days that ever human creature passed ; and when the setting sun 
made me think of returning, astonished at the flight of time, I 
thought I had not taken sufficient advantage of my day; I fancied 
I might have enjoyed it more; and, to regain the lost time, I 
said, — I will come back to-morrow. I returned slowly home, my 
head a little fatigued, but my heart content. I reposed agreeably 
on my return, abandoning myself to the impression of objects, but 
without thinking, without imagining, without doing anything 
beyond feehng the calm and the happiness of my situation. I 
found the cloth laid upon terrace ; I supped with a good appetite, 
amidst my little household. No feeling of servitude or dependence 
disturbed the good will that united us all. My dog himself was my 
friend, not my slave. We had always the same wish ; but he never 
obeyed me. My gayety during the whole evening testified to my 
having been alone the whole day. I was very different when I had 
seen company. Then I was rarely contented with others, and never 
with myself. In the evening I was cross and taciturn. This 
remark was made by my housekeeper ; and since she has told me so I 
have always found it true, when I watched myself. Lastly, after 
having again taken in the evening a few turns in my garden, or 
sung an air to my spinnet, I found in my bed repose of body and 



278 LEISUKE HOUES. 



soul a hundred times sweeter than sleep itself. These were the 
days that have made the true happiness of my life — a happiness 
mthout bitterness, without weariness, without regret, and to which 
I would wiUingly have limited my existence. Yes, sir, let such 
days as these fill up my eternity; I do not ask for others, nor imag- 
ine that I am much less happy in these exquisite contemplations 
than the heavenly spirits. But a suffering body deprives the mind 
of its liberty; henceforth I am not alone ; I have a guest who impor- 
tunes me; I must free myself of it to be myself. The trial that 
I have made of these sweet enjoyments serves only to make me 
with less alarm await the time when I shall taste them without 
interruption. 



Joan of Arc. 



What is to be thought of her? What is to be thought of the 
poor shepherd girl from the hUlsand forests of Lorraine, that, like the 
Hebrew shepherd boy from the hills and forests of Judea, rose suddenly 
out of the quiet, out of the safety, out of the rehgious inspiration, 
rooted in deep pastoral solitudes, to a station in the van of armies, 
and to the more perilous station at the right hand of kings ? The 
Hebrew boy inaugurated his patriotic mission by an act, by a vic- 
torious act, such as no man could deny. But so did the girl of 
Lorraine, if we read her story as it was read by those who saw her 
nearest. Adverse armies bore witness to the boy as no pretender; 
but so did they to the gentle girl. Judged by the voices of aU who 
saw them/ro)?i a station of good-ivill, both were found true and loyal 
to any promises involved in their first acts. Enemies it was that 
made the difference between their subsequent fortunes. The boy 
rose — to a splendor and a noonday prosperity, both personal and 
public, that rang through the records of his people and became a by- 
word amongst his posterity for a thousand years, until the scepter 



JOAN OF ARC. 279 



was departing from Judah. The poor forsaken girl, on the contrary, 
drank not herself from that cup of rest which she had secured for 
France. She never sang together with them the songs that rose in 
her native Domremy, as echoes to the departing steps of invaders. 
She mingled not in the festal dances of Vancouleurs which celebrated 
in rapture the redemption of France. No ! for her voice was then 
silent. No ! for her feet were dust. Pure, innocent, noble-hearted 
girl ! whom, from earhest youth, ever I beheved in as full of truth 
and self-sacrifice, this was amongst the strongest pledges for thy side, 
that never once — no, not for a moment of weakness — didst thou 
revel in the vision of coronets and honors from man. Coronets for 
thee ! Oh, no ! Honors, if they come when all is over, are for those 
that share thy blood. Daughter of Domremy, when the gratitude of 
thy king shall awaken, thou wilt be sleeping the sleep of the dead. 
Call her, king of France, but she ^viU not hear thee ! Cite her by 
thy apparitors to come and receive a robe of honor, but she "wdll be 
found in cuntuniace. When the thunders of universal France, as 
even yet may happen, shall proclaim the grandeur of the poor shep- 
herd girl that gave up all for her country, thy ear, young shepherd 
girl, will have been deaf for five centuries. To sufier and to do — 
that was thy portion in this hfe ; to do — never for thyself, always 
for others ; to suffer — never in the persons of generous champions, 
always in thy own ; that was thy destiny ; and not for a moment 
was it hidden from thyself. "Life," thou saidst, "is short, and the 
sleep which is in the grave is long. Let me use that hfe, so tran- 
sitory, for the glory of those heavenly dreams destined to comfort 
the sleep which is long." This poor creature, pure from every 
suspicion of even a visionary self-interest, even as she was pure in 
senses more obvious — never once did this holy child, as regarding 
herself, relax from her behef in the darkness that was traveling to 
meet her. She might not prefigure the very manner of her death ; 
she saw not in vision, perhaps, the aerial altitude of the fiery scaffold, 
the spectators without end on every road pouring into Kouen as to 
a coronation, the surging smoke, the voUeying flames, the hostile 
faces all around, the pitying eye that lurked but here and there 



2 so LEISURE SOURS. 



until nature and imperishable truth broke loose from artificial 
restraints; these might not be ajjparent through the mists of the 
hurrying futiire. But the voice that called her to death, that she 
heard forever. 

Great was the throne of France even in those days, and great 
was he that sat upon it; but well Joanna knew that not the throne, 
nor he that sat upon it, was for her; but, on the contrary, that she 
was for them; not she by them, but they by her, should rise from 
tlie dust. Gorgeous were the hhes of France, and for centuries had 
the privilege to spread their beauty over land and sea, until in another 
<4entury the wrath of God and man combined to wither them; but 
jv'ell Joanjia knew, early at Domremy she had read that bitter truth, 
that the lilies of France would decorate no garland for her. Flower 
nor bud, beU nor blossom would ever bloom for her. 

On the Wednesday after Trinity Sunday in 1431, being then 
about nineteen years of age, the Maid of Arc underwent her mar- 
tyrdom. She was conducted before midday, guarded by eight 
hundred spearmen, to a jjlatform of prodigious height, constructed 
of wooden billets, supported by hoUow spaces in every direction, 
for the creation of air currents. "The pile struck terror," says M. 
Michelet, "by its height." 

There would be a certainty of calumny rising against her— - 
some people would impute to her a wilhngness to recant. No inno- 
cence could escape that. Now, had she really testified this willing- 
ness on the scaffold, it would have argued nothing at all but the 
weakness of a genial nature shrinking from the instant approach of 
torment. And those will often pity that weakness most, who in 
their own persons would yield to it least. Meantime there never 
was a calumny uttered that drew less support from the recorded 
circumstances. It rests upon no positive testimony, and it has 
weight of contradicting testimony to stem. 

What else but her meek, saintly demeanor won, from the ene- 
mies that till now had believed her a witch, tears of rapturous 
admiration? "Ten thousand men," says M, Michelet liimself, "ten 
thousand men wept ; " and of these ten thousand the majority were 



JOAN OF ARC. 281 



political enemies knitted together by cords of superstition. What 
else was it but her constancy- united with her angehc gentleness, 
that drove the fanatic Enghsh soldier — who had sworn to throw a 
fagot on her scaffold as his tribute of abhorrence, that did so, that 
fulfilled his vow — suddenly tu turn away a penitent for life, saying 
everywhere that he had seen a dove rising upon wings to heaven 
from the ashes where she bpd stood? What else drove the execu- 
tioner to kneel at every shriiie for pardon to his share in the tragedy? 
And if all this were insufficient, then I cite the closing act of her hfe 
as vahd on her behalf, were all other testimonies against her. The 
executioner had been directed to apply his torch from below. He 
did so. The fiery smoke rose up in billowy columns. A Domin- 
ican monk was then sfanding almost at her side. Wrapped up in 
his subhme office, he saw not the danger, but still persisted in his 
prayers. Even then when the last enemy was racing up the fiery 
stairs to seize her, -sven at that moment did this noblest of girls 
think only for /«'???, the one friend that would not forsake her, and 
not herself; bidding him with her last breath to care for his own 
preservation, but to leave her to God. That girl, whose latest breath 
ascended in this subhme expression of self-obhvion, did not utter 
the word recant either with her hps or in her heart. No, she did 
Tiot,tl7,o\igh <),n'% should rise from the dead to swear it. 




282 LBISUKE HOURS. 



Buds and. Bird 'Voices. 

The lilac-slirubs under my study windows are almost in leaf; 
in two or three days more I may put forth my hand and pluck the 
topmost bough in its freshest green. These lilacs are very aged, and 
have lost the luxuriant foliage of their prime. The heart, or the 
judgment, or the moral sense, or the taste, is dissatisfied with their 
present aspect. Old age is not venerable when it embodies itself 
in lilacs, rose bushes, or any other ornamental shrub ; it seems as 
if such plants, as they grow only for beauty, ought to flourish 
always in immortal youth, or at least to die before their sad decrep- 
itude. Trees of beauty are trees' of paradise, and therefore not 
subject to decay by their original nature, though they have lost that 
precious birthright by beiag transplanted to an earth soil. There 
is a kind of ludicrous unfitness in the idea of a time-stricken and 
grandfatherly lilac bush. The analogy holds good in human life. 
Persons who can only be graceful and ornamental — who can give 
the world nothing but flowers — should die young and never be seen 
with gray hair and wrinkles, any more than the flower shrubs with 
mossy bark and bhghted foliage, like the lUacs under my window. 
Not that beauty is worthy of less than immortality; no, the beau- 
tiful should live forever, — and thence, perhaps, the sense of impro- 
priety when we see it triumphed over by time. Apple-trees, on the 
other hand, grow old -without reproach. Let them live as lo*ig as 
they may, and contort themselves into whatever perversity of shape 
they please, and deck their -withered limbs with a spring-time gau- 
diness of pink blossoms; still they are respectable, even if they 
afford us only an apple or two in a season. Those few apples,— or, 
at aU events, the remembrance of apples in by-gone years — are the 
atonement which utilitarianism inexorably demands for the privi- 
lege of lengthened life. Human flower-shrubs, if they grow old on 
earth, should, besides their lovely blossoms, bear some kind of fruit 



BUDS AND BIRD VOICES. 283 

that mil satisfy earthly appetites ; else neither man nor the deco- 
rum of nature -will deem it fit that the moss should gather on them. 
One of the first things that strikes the attention when the white 
sheet of Winter is withdrawn, is the neglect and disarray that lay 
hidden heneath it. Nature is not cleanly according to our preju- 
dices. The beauty of preceding years, now transformed to brown 
and blighted deformity, obstructs the brightening loveliness of the 
present hour. Our avenue is strewn with the whole crop of autumn's 
withered leaves. There are quantities of decayed branches which 
one tempest after another has flung down, black and rotten, and 
one or two with the ruin of a bird's nest clinging to them. In the 
garden are the dried bean vines, the brown stalks of the asparagus 
bed, and melancholy old cabbage, which were frozen into the soil 
before their unthrifty cultivator could find time to gather them. 
How invariably, throughout aU the forms of hfe, do we find these 
intermingled memorials of death ! On the soil of thought and in 
the garden of the heart, as well as in the sensual world, lie mthered 
leaves, — the ideas and feeUngs that we have done with. There is 
no wind strong enough to sweep them away ; infinite space will not 
garner them from our sight. What mean they? Wliy may we not 
be permitted to hve and enjoy, as if this were the first hfe and our 
own the primal enjoyment, instead of treading always on these 
dry bones and moldering rehcs, from the aged accumulation of 
which springs all that now appears so young and new? Sweet must 
have been the Spring-time of Eden, when no earher year had strewn 
its decay upon the virgin turf, and no former experience had ripened 
into Summer and faded into Autumn in the hearts of its inhabitants ! 
That was a world worth living in. thou murmurer, it is out of 
the very wantonness of such a life that thou f eigne st these idle 
lamentations. There is no decay. Each human soul is the first- 
created inhabitant of its own Eden. We dwell in an old moss- 
covered mansion, and tread in the worn foot-prints of the past, and 
have a gray clergyman's ghost for our daily and nightly inmate ; 
yet aU these outward circumstances are made less than visionary 
by the renewing power of the spirit. Should the spirit ever lose 



284 



LEISURE HOURS., 




this power, — should the withered leaves and rotten branches, and 
the moss-covered house, and the ghost of the gray past ever become 
its realities, and the verdure and the freshness merely its faint 
dream, — then let it pray to be released from earth. It wiU need the 
air of heaven to revive its pristine energies. 

What an unlooked-for flight was this from our shadowy avenue 
of black ash and balm-of-Gilead trees into the infinite! Now we 



BUDS AND BIRD VOICES. 



285 




THE TEAIi. 



have our feet again iipon the turf. Nowhere does the grass spring 
up so industriously as in this homely yard, along the base of the 
stone wall, and in the sheltered nooks of the buildings ; and espe- 
cially around the southern doorstep, — a locality which seems par- 
ticularly favorable to its growth, for it is already tall enough to bend 
over and wave in the wind. I observe that several weeds, and most 
frequently a plant that stains the fingers with its yellow juice — have 
survived and retained their freshness and sap throughout the Winter. 
One knows not how they have deserved such an exception from the 
common lot of their race. They are now the patriarchs of the 
departed year, and may preach mortahty to the present generation 
of flowers and weeds. 



286 LEISURE HOURS. 



Among the delights of Spring, how is it possible to forget the 
birds? Even the crows were welcome as the sable harbingers of a 
brighter and livelier race. They visited us before the snow was off, 
but seem mostly to have betaken themselves to remote depths of the 
woods, which they haunt all summer long. Many a time shall I 
disturb them there, and feel as if I had intruded among a company 
of silent worshipers, as they sit in Sabbath stillness among the 
tree tops. Their voices, when they speak, are in admirable accord- 
ance with the tranquil sohtude of a summer afternoon ; and resound- 
ing so far above the head, their loud clamor increases the religious 
quiet of the scene instead of breaking it. A crow, however, has no 
real pretentions to religion, in spite of his gravity of mien and black 
attire ; he is certainly a thief, and probably an infidel. The guUs 
are far more respectable, in a moral point of view. These denizens 
of sea-beaten rocks and haunters of the lonely beach come up our 
inland river at this season, and soar high overhead, flapping their 
broad wings in the upper sunshine. They are among the most pic- 
turesque of birds, because they so float and rest upon the air as to 
become almost stationary parts of the landscape. The imagination 
has time to grow acquainted with them ; they have not flitted away 
in a moment. You go up among the clouds and greet these lofty- 
flighted gulls, and repose confidently with them upon the sustaining 
atmosphere. Ducks have their haunts along the sohtary places of 
the river, and ahght in flocks upon the broad bosom of the over- 
flowed meadows. Their flight is too rapid and determined for the 
eye to catch enjoyment from it, although it never fails to stir up 
the heart with the sportsman's ineradicable instinct. They have 
now gone farther northward, but will visit us again in Autumn. 

The smaller birds, — the httle songsters of the woods, and those 
that haunt man's dwellings and claim human friendship by building 
their nests under the sheltering eaves or among the orchard trees, — 
these require a touch more dehcate and a gentler heart than mine 
to do them justice. Their outburst of melody is hke a brook let 
loose from wintry chains. We need not deem it a too high and sol- 



BUDS AND BIRD VOICES. 287 

emn word to call it a hymn of praise to the Creator, since Nature, 
who pictures the reviving year in so many sights of beauty, has 
expressed the sentiments of renewed Hfe in no other sound save the 
notes of these blessed birds. Their music, however, just now, seems 
to be incidental, and not the result of a set pui-pose. They are dis- 
cussing the economy of hfe and love, and the site and architecture 
of their Summer residences, and have no time to sit on a twig and 
pour forth solemn hymns, or overtures, operas, symphonies, and 
waltzes. Anxious questions are asked; grave subjects are settled in 
quick and animated debate ; and only by occasional accident, as 
from pure ecstacy, does a rich warble roll its tiny waves of golden 
sound through the atmosphere. Their httle bodies are as busy as 
their voices; they are in constant flutter and restlessness. Even 
when two or three retreat to a tree top to hold council, they wag 
their tails and heads all the time -udth the irrepressible activity of 
their nature, which perhaps renders their brief span of life in real- 
ity as long as the patriarchal age of sluggish man. The black-birds, 
three species of which consort together, are the noisiest of all our 
feathered citizens. Great companies of them — more than the 
famous "four-and-twenty" whom Mother Goose has immortahzed — 
congregate in contiguous tree tops, and vociferate with all the clamor 
and confusion of a turbulent jjolitical meeting. Pohtics, certainly, 
must be the occasion of such tumultuous debates ; but still, unhke 
all other pohticians, they instill melody into their individual utter- 
ances, and produce harmony as a general effect. Of all bird voices, 
none are more sweet and cheerful to my ear than those of swallows, 
in the dim, sun-streaked interior of a lofty barn; they address the 
heart vath even a closer sympathy than robin-redbreast. But, in- 
deed, all these winged people, that dwell in the vicinity of home- 
steads, seem to partake of human nature, and possess the germ, if 
not the development, of immortal souls. We hear them saying 
their melodious prayers at morning's blush and eventide. A httle 
while ago, in the deep of night, there came the lively thrill of a 
bird's note from a neighboring tree, — a real song, such as greets 
the purple dawn or mingles with the yellow sunshine. "What could 



288 LEISURE HOUES. 



the little bird mean by pouring it forth at midnight? Probably the 
music gushed out of the midst of a dream in which he fancied him- 
self in paradise with his mate, but suddenly awoke on a cold, 
leafless bough, with a New England mist penetrating through his 
feathers. That was a sad exchange of imagination for reahty. 



The Works of Creation. 

I was yesterday, about sunset, walking in the open fields, until 
the night insensibly fell upon me. I at first amused myself with all 
the richness and variety of colors which appeared in the western 
parts of heaven. In proportion as they faded away and went out, 
several stars and planets appeared one after another, until the whole 
firmament was in a glow. The blueness of the ether was exceed- 
ingly heightened and enlivened by the season of the year, and by 
the rays of all those luminaries that passed through it. The galaxy 
appeared in its most beautiful white. To complete the scene, the 
full moon rose at length in that clouded majesty which Milton takes 
notice of, and opened to the eye a new picture of nature, which was 
more finely shaded and disposed among softer lights, than that 
which the sun had before discovered to us. 

As I was surveying the moon walking in her brightness, and 
taking her progress among the constellations, a thought rose in me 
which I beheve very often perplexes me and disturbs men of 
serious and contemplative nature. David himself fell into it in 
that reflection: "When I consider the heavens the work of thy fin- 
gers, the moon and the stars which thou hast ordained, what is 
man that thou art mindful of him, and the son of man that thou 
regardest him?" In the same manner, Avhen I considered that in- 
finite host of stars, or, to speak more philosophically, of suns, 
which were then shining upon me, with those innumerable sets of 
planets or worlds which were moving roimd their respective suns — 
when I still enlarged the idea, and supposed another heaven of 



THE WOEKS OF CREATION. 289 

suns and worlds rising still above this wliicb we discovered, and 
these still enlightened by a superior firmament of luminaries, which 
are planted at so great a distance that they may appear to the 
inhabitants of the former as the stars do to us — in short, while I 
pursued this thought I could not but reflect on that little insignifi- 
cant figure which I myself bore amidst the immensity of God's 
works. 

Were the sun which enlightens this part of the creation, with 
all the host of planetary worlds that move about him, utterly extin- 
guished and annihilated, they would not be missed more than a grain 
of sand upon the sea shore. The space they possess is so exceeding- 
ly httle in comparison with the whole, that it would scarcely make a 
blank in the creation. The chasm would be imperceptible to an 
eye that could take in the whole compass of nature, and pass from 
one end of the creation to the other ; as it is possible there may be 
such a sense in ourselves hereafter, or in creatures which are at 
present more exalted than ourselves. We see many stars by the 
help of glasses which we do not discover with our naked eyes ; and 
the finer our telescopes are, the more still are our discoveries. 

Huygenius carries this thought so far, that he does not think 
it impossible there may be stars whose Hght has not yet traveled 
down to us since their first creation. There is no question but the 
universe has certain bounds set to it ; but when we consider that it 
is the work of infinite power prompted by infinite goodness, with 
an infinite space to exert itself in, how can our imagination set 
any bounds to it? 

To return, therefore, to my first thought; I could not but look 
upon myself with secret horror as a being that was not worth the 
smallest regard of one who had so great a work under his care and 
superintendency. I was afraid of being overlooked amidst the 
immensity of nature, and lost among that infinite variety of crea- 
tures which in all probability swarm through aU these immeasur- 
able regions of matter. 

In order to recover myself from this mortifying thought, I 
considered that it took its rise from those narrow conceptions which 



'■^90 LEISUEE HOURS. 



we are apt to entertain of the divine nature. We ourselves cannot 
attend to many different objects at the same time. If we are care- 
ful to inspect some things, we must of course neglect others. This 
imperfection which we observe in ourselves is an imperfection that 
cleaves in some degree to creatures of the highest capacities, as they 
are creatures; that is, beings of finite and Hmited natures. The 
presence of every created being is confined to a certain measure of 
space, and consequently his observation is stinted to a certain num- 
ber of objects. The sphere in which we move, and act, and under- 
stand, is of a wider circumference to one creature than another, 
according as we rise one above another in the scale of existence. 
But the widest of these, our spheres, has its circumference. 
"When, therefore, we reflect on the divine nature, we are so used 
and accustomed to this imperfection in ourselves, that we cannot 
forbear in some measure ascribing it to Him in whom there is no 
shadow of imperfection. Our reason indeed assures us that his 
attributes are infinite, but the poorness of our conceptions is such, 
that it cannot forbear setting bounds to everything it contemplates, 
until our reason comes again to our succor, and throws down all 
those little prejudices which rise in us unawares, and are natural to 
the mind of man. 

We shall, therefore, utterly extinguish this melancholy thought 
of our being overlooked by our Maker, in the multiplicity of his 
works and the infinity of those objects among whicli he seems to 
be incessantly employed, if we consider, in the first place, that he 
is omnipresent; and in the second, that he is omniscient. 

If we consider him in his omnipresence, his being passes 
through, actuates, and supports, the whole frame of nature. His 
creation, and every part of it, is full of him. There is nothing he 
has made that is either so distant, so little, or so inconsiderable, 
which he does not essentially inhabit. His substance is within the 
substance of every being, whether material or immaterial, and as 
intimately present to it as that being is to itself. It would be an 
imperfection in him were he able to remove out of one place into 
another, or to withdraw himself from anything he has created, or 



THE WORKS OP CREATION. 291 

from any part of that space which is diffused and spread abroad to 
infinity. In short, to speak of him in the language of the old phi- 
Josopher, he is a being whose center is everywhere, and his circum- 
ference nowhere. 

In the second place, he is omniscient as well as omnipresent. 
His omniscience, indeed, necessarily and naturally flows from his 
omnipresence; he cannot but be conscious of every motion that 
arises in the whole material world, which he thus essentially per- 
vades, and of every thought that is striving in the intellectual 
world, to every part of which he is thus intimately united. Sev- 
eral morahsts have considered the creation as the temple of God, 
which he has built with his own hands, and which is filled with his 
presence. Others have considered infinite space as the receptacle, 
or rather the habitation, of the Almighty. But the noblest and 
most exalted way of considering this infinite space is that of Sir 
Isaac Newton, who calls it the sensorium of the Godhead. Brutes 
and men have their sensoriola, or little sensoriums, by which they 
apprehend the presence and perceive the actions of a few objects 
that lie contiguous to them. Their knowledge and observation turn 
within a very narrow circle. But as God Almighty cannot but per- 
ceive and know everything in which he resides, infinite space gives 
room to infinite knowledge, and is, as it were, an organ to omnis- 
cience. 

Were the soul separate from the body, and with one glance of 
thought should start beyond the bounds of the creation — should it 
for millions of years continue its progress through infinite space 
with the same activity — it would stiU find itself within the embrace 
of its Creator, and encompassed round with the immensity of the 
Godhead. While we are in body, he is not less present with us 
because he is concealed from us. "Oh, that I knew where I might 
find him!" says Job. "Behold I go forward, but he is not there; 
and backward, but I cannot perceive him ; on the left hand where 
he does work, but I cannot behold him ; he hideth himself on the 
right hand that I cannot see him." In short, reason as weU as 
revelation assures us that he cannot be absent from us, notwith- 
standing he is undiscovered by us. 



292 LEISURE HOURS. 



In the consideration of God Almighty's omnipresence and om- 
niscience, every uncomfortable thought vanishes. He cannot but 
regard everything that has being, especially such of his creatures 
who fear they are not regarded by him. He is privy to aU their 
thoughts, and to that anxiety of heart in particular which is apt to 
trouble them on this occasion ; for as it is impossible he should 
overlook any of his creatures, so we may be confident that he re- 
gards with an eye of mercy those who endeavor to recommend 
themselves to his notice, and in an unfeigned humihty of heart 
think themselves unworthy that he should be mindful of them. 



"We have just religion enough to make us hate, but not enough 
to make us love one another. 



When we desire or solicit anything, our minds run wholly on 
the good side or circumstances of it ; when it is obtained, our mind 
runs only on the bad ones. 



When a true genius appeareth in the world, you may know 
him by this infallible sign, that the dunces are all in confederacy 
against him. 



I am apt to think that, in the day of judgment, there will be 
small allowance given to the wise for their want of morals, or to 
the ignorant for their want of faith, because both are without ex 
cuse; this renders the advantages equal of ignorance and knowl. 
edge. But some scruples in the wise, and some vices in the igno- 
rant, will perhaps be forgiven upon the strength of temptation to 
each. 




THE] SWALLOW SWEEPS THE 
SLIMY POOL.' 



BIRDS PAIRING IN SPRING. 295 



Birds Pairing In Spring. 

To the deep woods 
They haste away, all as their fancy leads, 
Pleasure, or food, or secret safety prompts; 
That nature's great command may be obeyed: 
Nor all the sweet sensations they perceive 
Indulged in vain. Some to the holly hedge 
Nestling repair, and to the thicket some ; 
Some to the rude protection of the thorn 
Commit their feeble offspring; the cleft tree 
Offers its kind concealment to a few. 
Their food its insects, and its moss their nests: 
Others apart, far in the grassy dale 
Of roughening waste their humble texture weave: 
But most in woodland solitudes delight, 
In unfrequented glooms or shaggy banks, 
Steep, and divided by a babbling brook, 
Whose murmurs soothe them all the livelong day, 
When by duty fixed. Among the roots 
Of hazel pendent o'er the plaintive stream, 
They frame the first foundation of iheir domes, 
Dry sprigs of trees, in artful fabric laid, 
And bound with clay together. Now 'tis nought 
But restless hurry through the busy air, 
Beat by unnumbered wings. The swallow sweeps 
The slimy pool, to build his hanging house 
Intent : and often from the careless back 
Of herds and flocks a thousand tugging bills 
Pluck hair and wool ; and oft, when unobserved, 
Steal from the barn a straw ; till soft and warm, 
Clean and complete, their habitation grows. 



296 LEISUEE HOURS. 



As thus the patient dam assiduous sits, 
Not to be tempted from her tender task 
Or by sharp hunger or by smooth delight, 
Though the whole loosened Spring around her blows, 
Her sympathising lover takes his stand 
High on the opponent bank, and ceasless sings 
The tedious time away; or else supplies 
Her place a moment, while she sudden flits 
To pick the scanty meal. The appointed time 
With pious toil fulfilled, the callow young, 
Warmed and expanded into perfect life, 
Their brittle bondage break, and come to Hght; 
A helpless family, demanding food 
With constant clamonr: what a passion then, 
What melting sentiments of kindly care. 
On the new parents sieze ! away they fly 
Affectiona.te, and, undesiring, bear 
The most delicious morsel to their young, 
Which equally distributed, again 
The search begins. Even so a gentle pair, 
By fortune sunk, but formed of generous mould, 
And charmed with cares beyond the vulgar breast, 
In some lone cot amid the distant woods, 
Sustained alone by providential heaven, 
Oft as they, weeping, eye their infant train, 
Check their own appetites, and give them all. 



^J^ 



THE AMERICAN INDIAN. 297 



The Araerican Indian. 

On the surrender of Acadia to England, the lakes, the rivulets, 
the granite ledges, of Cape Breton, — of which the irregular outline 
is guarded by reefs of rocks, and notched and almost rent asimder 
■ by the constant action of the sea, — were immediately occupied as 
a province of France; and, in 1714, fugitives from Newfoundland 
and Acadia built their huts along its coasts, wherever safe inlets 
invited fishermen to spread their flakes, and the soil to plant fields 
and gardens. In a few years, the fortifications of Louisburg 
began to rise, — the key to the St. Lawrence, the bulwark of the 
French fisheries, and of French commerce in North America. 
From Cape Breton, the dominion of Louis XIV extended up the 
St. Lawrence to Lake Superior, and from that lake, through the 
whole course of the Mississippi, to the Gulf of Mexico and the 
Bay of Mobile. Just beyond that bay began the posts of the 
Spaniards, which continued round the shores of Florida to the 
fortress of St. Augustine. The English colonies skirted the 
Atlantic, extending from Florida to the eastern verge of Nova 
Scotia. Thus, if on the east the Strait of Canso divided France 
and England, if on the south a narrow range of forests intervened 
between England and Spain, everywhere else the colonies of the 
rival nations were separated from each other by tribes of the 
natives. The Europeans had estabhshed a wide circle of planta- 
tions, or, at least, of posts; they had encompassed the aborigines 
that dwelt east of the Mississippi ; and, however eager might now 
be the passion of the intruders for carving their emblems on trees, 
and designating their hues of anticipated empii-e on maps, their 
respective settlements were kept asunder by an unexplored wilder- 
ness, of which savages were the occupants. 

The great strife of France and England for American terri- 
tory could not but involve the ancient possessors of the continent 



298 LEISCEE HOURS. 



in a series of conflicts, which have, at last, banished the Indian 
tribes from the earher hmits of our repubhc. The picture of the 
unequal contest inspires a compassion that is honorable to human- 
ity. The weak demand sympathy. If a melancholy interest 
attaches to the fall of a hero who is overpowered by superior force, 
shall we not drop a tear at the fate of nations, whose defeat fore- 
boded the exile, if it did not, indeed, shadow forth the dechne and 
ultimate extinction, of a race? 

The earhest books on America contained tales as wild as 
fancy could invent or credulity repeat. The land was peopled with 
pygmies and with giants ; the tropical forests were said to conceal 
tribes of negroes; and tenants of the hyperborean regions were 
white, like the polar bear or the ermine. Jacques Cartier had 
heard of a nation that did not eat; and the pedant Lafitau be- 
heved, if not in a race of headless men, at least, that there was a 
nation of men with the head not rising above the shoulders. 

The first aspect of the original inhabitants of the United 
States was uniform. Between the Indians of Florida and Canada, 
the difference was scarcely perceptible. Their manners and insti- 
tutions, as well as their organization, had a common physiognomy; 
and, before their languages began to be known, there was no safe 
method of grouping the nations into famihes. But when the vast 
variety of dialects came to be compared, there were found, east Oi.' 
the Mississippi, not more than eight radically distinct languages, 
of which five stiU constitute the speech of powerful communities, 
and three are known only as memorials of tribes that have almost 
disappeared from the earth. 

The study of the structure of the dialects of the red men 
sheds light on the inquiry into their condition. Language is their 
oldest monument, and the record and image of their experience. 
No savage horde has been caught with it in a state of chaos, or as 
if just emerging from the rudeness of undistinguishable sounds. 
No American language bears marks of being an arbitrary aggrega- 
tion of separate parts ; but each is possessed of an entire organi- 
zation, having unity of character, and controlled bj exact rules. 



THE AMEEICAN INDIAN". 299 



Each appears, not as a slow formation by painful processes of 
invention, but as a perfect whole, springing directly from the 
powers of man. A savage physiognomy is imprinted on the dia- 
lect of the dweller in the wilderness ; but each dialect is still not 
only free from confusion, but is almost absolutely free from irregu- 
larities, and is pervaded and governed by undeviating laws. As 
the bee builds his cells regularly, yet without the recognition of 
the rules of geometry, so the unreflecting savage, in the use of 
words, had rule and method and completeness. His speech, Hke 
everything else, underwent change ; but human pride errs in believ- 
ing that the art of cultivated man was needed to resolve it into its 
elements, and give to it new forms, before it could fulfill its office. 
Each American language was competent of itself, without improve- 
ment from scholars, to exemplify every rule of the logician, and 
give utterance to every passion. Each dialect that has been, 
analyzed has been found to be rich in derivatives and compounds, 
in combinations and forms. As certainly as every plant which draws 
juices from the earth has roots and sap vessels, bark and leaves, 
so certainly each language has its complete organization, — includ- 
ing the same parts of speech, though some of them may lie 
concealed in mutual coalitions. Human consciousness and human 
speech exist everywhere, indissolubly united. A tribe has no more 
been found without an organized language, than without eyesight 
or memory. 

As the languages of the American tribes were limited by the 
tnaterial world, so, in private hfe, the senses held dominion. The 
passion of the savage was liberty; he demanded hcense to gratify 
his animal instincts. To act for himself, to follow the propensi- 
ties of his nature, seemed his system of morals. The supremacy 
of conscience, the rights of reason, were not subjects of reflection 
to those who had no name for continence. The idea of chastity, 
as a social duty, was but feebly developed among them, and the 
observer of their customs would, at first, believe them to have 
been ignorant of restraint. If " the kindly flames of nature 
buuned in wild humanity," their love never became a frenzy or a 
devotion ; for indulgence destroyed its energy and its purity. 



300 LEISURE HOURS. 



And yet no nation has ever been found without some practical 
confession of the duty of self-denial. " God hath planted in the 
hearts of the wildest of the sons of men a high and honorable 
esteem of the marriage, insomuch that they universally submit 
unto it, and hold its violation abominable." Neither might mar- 
riages be contracted between kindred of near degree ; the Iroquois 
might choose a wife of the same tribe with himself, but not of the 
same cabin ; the Algonquin must look beyond those who used the 
same totem, or family symbol; the Cherokee would marry at once 
a mother and her daughter, but would never marry his own imme- 
diate kindred. 

On forming an engagement, the bridegroom, or, if he were 
poor, his friends and neighbors, made a present to the bride's 
father, of whom no dowry was expected. The acceptance of the 
presents perfected the contract ; the wife was purchased ; and, for 
a season, at least, the husband, surrendering his gains as a hunter 
to her family, had a home in her father's lodge. 

But, even in marriage, the Indian abhorred constraint; and, 
from Florida to the St. Lawrence, polygamy was permitted, though 
at the north it was not common. In a happy union, affection was 
fostered and preserved ; and the wilderness could show wigwams 
where "couples had lived together thirty, forty years." Yet love 
did not always light his happiest torch at the nuptials of the chil- 
dren of nature, and marriage among the forests had its sorrows 
and its crimes. The infidelities of the husband sometimes drove 
the helpless wife to suicide; the faithless wife had no protector; 
her husband insulted or disfigured her at will; and death for 
adultery was unrevenged. Divorce, also, was permitted, even for 
occasions besides adultery; it took place without formahty, by a 
simple separation or desertion, and, where there was no offspring, 
was of easy occurrence. Children were the strongest bond; for, if 
the mother was discarded, it was an unwritten law of the red man 
that she should herself retain those whom she had borne or 
nursed. 

On quitting the cradle, the children are left nearly naked in 



THE AMEEICA.N INDIAN. 301 

the cabin, to grow hardy, and learn the use of their hmbs. Juve- 
nile sports are the same everywhere ; children invent them for 
themselves; and the traveler, who finds everywhere in the wide 
world the same games, may rightly infer, that the Father of the 
great human family himseh instructs the innocence of childhood 
in its amusements. There is no domestic government; the young 
do as they will. They are never earnestly reproved, injured or 
beaten; a dash of cold water in the face is their heaviest punish- 
ment. If they assist in the labors of the household, it is as a 
pastime, not as a charge. Yet they show respect to the chiefs, 
and defer with docility to those of their cabin. The attachment 
of savages to their offspring is extreme ; and they cannot bear 
separation from them. Hence every attempt at founding schools 
for their children was a failure ; a missionary would gather a. little 
flock about him, and of a sudden, writes Le Jeune, "my birds flew 
away." From their insufficient and irregular supphes of clothing 
and food, they learn to endure hunger and rigorous seasons ; of 
themselves, they become fleet of foot, and skillful in swimming; 
their courage is nursed by tales respecting their ancestors, tiU they 
burn Avith a love of glory to be acquired by valor and address. So 
soon as the child can grasp the bow and arrow, they are in his 
hand; and, as there was joy in the Avigwam at his birth, and his 
first cutting of a tooth, so a festival is kept for his first success in 
the chase. The Indian young man is educated in the school of 
nature. The infliiences by which he is surrounded nurse within 
him the passion for war; as he grows up, he, in his turn, takes up 
the war-song, of which the echoes never die away on the boundless 
plains of the West; he travels the war-path in search of an 
encounter with an enemy, that he, too, at the great war-dance and 
feast of his band, may boast of his exploits ; may enumerate his 
gallant deeds by the envied feathers of the war-eagle that decorate 
his hair; and may keep the record of his wounds by shining marks 
of vermiHon on his skin. 

The savages are proud of idleness. At home, they do little 
but cross their arms and sit Ustlessly; or engage in games of 



^02 LEISUKE HOURS., 



chance, hazarding all their possessions on the result; or meet in 
council; or sing, and eat, and play, and sleep. The greatest toils 
of the men were to perfect the pahsades of the forts ; to manufact- 
ure a boat out of a tree, by means of fire and a stone hatchet; to 
repair their cabins ; to get ready instruments of war or the chase, 
and to adorn their persons. Woman is the laborer ; woman bears 
the burdens of life. The food that is raised from the earth is the 
fruit of her industry. With no instrument but a wooden mattock, 
a shell, or a shoulder-blade of the buffalo, she plants the maize, 
the beans, and the running vines. She drives the blackbirds from 
the cornfield, breaks the weeds, and, in due season, gathers the 
harvest. She pounds the parched corn, dries the buffalo mea,t, 
and prepares for Winter the store of wild fruits ; she brings home 
the game which her husband has killed; she bears the wood, and 
draws the water, and spreads the repast. If the chief constructs 
the keel of the canoe, it is woman who stitches the bark with spht 
ligaments of the pine root, and sears the seams with resinous gum. 
If the men prepare the poles for the wigwam, it is woman who 
builds it, and, in times of journeyings, bears it on her shoulders. 
The Indian's wife was his slave; and the number of his slaves was 
a criterion of his wealth. 

The Indians of our republic had no calendar of their own; 
their languages have no word for year, and they reckon time by 
the return of snow or the sj)nnging of the flowers ; their months 
are named from that which the earth produces in them ; and their 
almanac is kept in the sky by the birds, whose flight announces 
the progress of the seasons. The brute creation gives them warn- 
ing of the coming storm ; the motion of the sun marks the hour of 
the day; and the distinctions of time are noted, not in numbers, 
but in words that breathe tt) grace and poetry of nature. 

The aboriginal tribes of the United States depended for food 
on the chase, the fisheries and agriculture. They kept no herds; 
they never were shepherds. The bison is difficult to tame, and its 
female yields little milk, of which the use was unknown to the red 
man; water was his only drink. The moose, the bear, the deer, 



THE AMERICAN INDIAN. 303 

and, at the West, the buffalo, besides smaller game and fowl, were 
pursued with arrows tipped with hart's-horn, or eagle's claws, or 
pointed stones. With nets and spears, fish were taken, and, for 
want of salt, were cured by smoke. Wild fruits, and abundant 
berries, were a resource in their season; and troops of girls, mth 
baskets of bark, would gather the fragrant fruit of the wild straw- 
berry. But all the tribes south of the St. Lawrence, except remote 
ones on the northeast and the northwest, cultivated the earth. 
Unlike the people of the Old World, they were at once hunters and 
^^illers of the ground. The contrast was due to the character of 
their grain. Wheat or rye would have been a useless gift to the 
Indian, who had neither plough nor sickle. The maize springs 
luxuriantly from a warm, new field, and in the rich soil, with little 
aid from culture, outstrips the weeds; bears, not thirty, not fifty, 
but a thousand-fold ; if once dry, is hurt neither by heat nor cold ; 
may be preserved in a pit or a cave for years, aye, and for cen- 
turies ; is gathered from the field by the hand, without knife or 
reaping-hook; and becomes nutritious food by a simple roasting 
before a fire. A httle of its parched meal, with water from the 
brook, was often a dinner and supper; and the warrior, with a 
small supply of it in a basket at his back, or in a leathern girdle, 
and with his bow and arrows, is ready for travel at a moment's 
warning. The tobacco plant was not forgotten ; and the cultivation 
of the vine, which we have learned of them to call the squash, 
with beans, completed their husbandry. 

During the mild season, there may have been little suffeiing. 
But thrift was wanting; the stores collected by the industry of the 
women were squandered in festivities. The hospitality of the In • 
dian has rarely been questioned. The stranger enters his cabin, by 
day or by night, without asking leave, and is entertained as freely 
as a thrush or a blackbird that regales himself on the luxuries of 
the fruitful grove. He will take up his own rest abroad, 
that he m^y give his own skin or mat of sedge to his 
guest. Nor is the traveler questioned as to the purpose of 
his visit; he chooses his own time freely to deliver his message. 



304 LEISUEB HOURS. 



Festivals, too, were common, at some of which it was the rule to 
eat everything that was offered; and the indulgence of appetite 
surpassed belief. But what could be more miserable than the tribes 
of the north and northwest, in the depth of Winter, suffering from 
an annual famine ; driven by the intense cold to sit indolently in 
the smoke around the fire in the cabin, and to fast for days to- 
gether; and then, again, compelled, by faintness for want of sus- 
tenance, to reel into the woods, and gather moss or bark for a thin 
decoction, that might, at least, relieve the extremity of hunger? 

Famine gives a terrible energy to the brutal part of our nature. 
A. shipwreck will make cannibals of civilized men ; a siege changes 
the refinements of urbanity into excesses at which humanity shud- 
ders; a retreating army abandons its wounded. The hunting 
tribes have the affections of men; but among them, also, extremity 
of want produces like results. The aged and infirm meet with 
little tenderness; the hunters, as they roam the wilderness, desert 
their old men; if provisions fail, the feeble drop down, and are lost, 
or life is shortened by a blow. 

The fate of the desperately ill was equally sad. Diseases were 
beheved to spring, in part, from natural causes, for which natural 
remedies were prescribed. Of these, the best was the vapor bath, 
prepared in a tent covered with skins, and warmed by means of hot 
stones; or decoctions of bark, or roots, or herbs, were used. Graver 
maladies were inexplicable, and their causes and cures formed a 
part of their rehgious superstitions ; but those who lingered with 
them, especially the aged, were sometimes neglected and sometimes 
put to death. 

The clothing of the natives was, in Summer, but a piece of 
skin, like an apron, round the waist; in Winter, a bear-skin, or, 
more commonly, robes made of the skins of the fox and the beaver. 
Their feet were protected by soft moccasins ; and to these were 
bound the broad snow-shoes, on which, though cumbersome to the 
novice, the Indian hunter could leap like the roe. Of the women, 
head, arms, and legs, were uncovered; a mat or a skin, neatly pre- 
pared, tied over the shoulders, and fastened to the waist by a girdle, 

24 



THE AMERICAN INDIAN. 305 

exteuded from the neck to the knees. They glittered with tufts of 
elk hair, brilliantly dyed in scarlet; and strings of the various 
kinds of shells were their pearls and diamonds. The Summer gar- 
ments of moose and deer-skins, were painted of many colors; and 
the fairest feathers of the turkey, fastened by threads made from 
wild hemp and nettle, were ciuiously wrought into mantles. The 
claws of the grizzly bear formed a proud collar for a war-chief; a 
piece of an enemy's scalp, with a tuft of long hair, painted red, 
glittered on the stem of their war-pipes ; the ^\dng of a red-bird, or 
the beak and plumage of a raven, decorated their locks; the skin of 
a rattlesnake was worn round the arm of their chiefs; the skin of 
the polecat, bound round the leg, was their order of the Garter — 
emblem of noble daring. A warrior's dress was often a history of 
his deeds. His skin was also tattooed with figures of animals, of 
leaves, of flowers, and painted -with lively and shining colors. 

Some had the nose tipped with blue, the eyebrows, eyes, and 
cheeks, tinged with black, and the rest of the face red; others had 
black, red, and blue stripes drawn from the ears to the mouth ; 
others had a broad, black band, like a ribbon, drawn from ear to 
ear across the eyes, with smaller bands on the cheeks. When they 
made visits, and when they assembled in council, they painted 
themselves gloriously, delighting especially in vermihon. 

There can be no society without government ; but among the 
Indian tribes on the soil of our rei^ubhc, there was not only no writ- 
ten law — there was no traditionary expression of law ; government 
rested on opinion and usage, and the motives to the usage were 
never embodied in language; they gained utterance only in the 
fact, and power only from opinion. No ancient legislator believed 
that human society could be maintained with so little artifice. Un- 
conscious of political principles, they remained under the influence 
of instincts. Their forms of government grew out of their pas- 
sions and their wants, and were, therefore, everywhere neaiiy the 
same. Without a code of laws, without a distinct recognition of 
succession in the magistracy, by inheritance or election, government 
was conducted harmoniously, by the influence of native genius, 
virtue, and experience. 



306 LEISURE HOURS. 

Prohibitory laws were hardly sanctioned by savage opinion. 
The wild man hates restraint, and loves to do what is right in his 
own eyes. As there was no commerce, no coin, no promissory 
uotes, no employment of others for hire, there were no contracts. 
Exchanges were but a reciprocity of presents, and mxitual gifts 
were the only traffic. Arrests and prisons, lawyers and sheriffs, 
were unknown. Each man was his own protector, and, as there 
was no pubhc justice, each man issued to himself his letter of re- 
prisals, and became his own avenger. In case of death by violence, 
the departed shade could not rest till appeased by a retaliation. 
His kindred would "go a thousand miles, for the purpose of revenge, 
over hills and mountains; through large cane swamps, fuU of grape- 
vines and briars; over broad lakes, rapid rivers, and deep creeks; 
and all the way endangered by poisonous snakes, exposed to the 
extremities of heat and cold, to hunger and thirst." And blood 
being once shed, the reciprocity of attacks involved family in the 
mortal strife against family, tribe against tribe, often continuing 
from generation to generation. Yet mercy could make itself heard, 
even among barbarians ; and peace was restored by atoning pres- 
ents, if they were enough to cover up the graves of the dead. 

The acceptance of the gifts pacified the families of those who 
were at variance. In savage hfe, which admits no division of labor, 
and has but the same pursuit for aU, the bonds of relationship are 
widely extended. Families remain undivided, having a common 
emblem, which designates aU their members as effectually as with 
us the name. The limit of the family is the limit of the inter- 
dicted degrees of consanguinity for marriage. They hold the bonds 
of brotherhood so dear, that a brother commonly pays the debt of 
a deceased brother, and assumes his revenge and his perils. There 
are no beggars among them, no fatherless children improvided for. 
The families that dwell together, hunt together, roam together, 
fight together, constitute a tribe. Danger from neighbors, favoring 
imion, leads to alliances and confederacies, just as pride, which is 
a pervading element in Indian character, and shelters itself in 
every lodge, leads to subdivisions. 



THE AMEBIC A.N INDIAN. 307 



As the tribe was but a union of families, government was a 
consequence of family relations, and the head of the family was its 
chief. The succession de^^ended on birth, and was inherited 
through the female hne. Elsewhere, the hereditary right was 
modified by opinion. Opinion could crowd a civil chief into retire- 
ment, and could dictate his successor. Nor was assassination un- 
known. The organization of the savage communities was like that 
which with us takes place at the call of a spontaneous pubhc meet- 
ing, where opinion in advance designates the principal actors ; or, 
as with us, at the death of the head of a large family, opinion 
within the famQy selects the best fitted of its surviving members to 
settle its affairs. Doubtless, the succession appeared sometimes to 
depend on the will of the surviving matron ; sometimes to have 
been consequent on birth ; sometimes to have been the result of the 
free election of the wild democracy, and of silent opinion. There 
have even been chiefs who could not teU when, where, or how, they 
obtained power. 

In hke manner, the different accounts of the power of the 
chief are contradictory only in appearance. The limit of his au- 
thority would be found in his personal character. The humihating 
subordination of one wiU to another was everywhere unknown. 
The Indian chief has no crown, or scepter, or guards; no outward 
symbols of supremacy, or means of giving validity to his decrees. 
The bounds of his authority float with the current of opinion in 
the tribe; he is not so much obeyed, as followed with the alacrity of 
free vohtion ; and therefore the extent of his power depends on his 
personal character. There have been chiefs whose commanding 
genius could so overawe and sway the common mind, as to gain, 
for a season, an almost absolute rule— while others had little 
authority, and, if they used menaces, Avere abandoned. 

Each village governed itself as if independent, and each after 
the same analogies, without variety. If the observer had regard to 
the sachems, the government seemed monarchical; but as, of 
measures that concerned all, "they would not conclude aught imto 
which the people were averse," and every man of due age was ad- 



308 LEISURE HOURS. 



mitted to council, it might also be described as a democracy. In 
council, the people were guided by the eloquent, were carried away 
by the brave; and this influence, which was recognized, and regu- 
lar in its action, appeared to constitute an ohgarchy. The affairs 
relating to the whole nation were transacted in general council, 
and with such equahty, and such zeal for the common good, that, 
while any one might have dissented with impunity, the voice of the 
tribe would yet be unanimous in its decisions. 

Their delight was in assembhng together, and listening to 
messengers from abroad. Seated in a semicircle on the ground, in 
double or triple rows, with the knees almost meeting the face — 
the painted and tattooed chiefs adorned with skins and plumes, 
with the beaks of the red-bird, or the claws of the bear — each 
listener perhaps with a pipe in his mouth, and preserving deep 
silence, they would give solemn attention to the speaker, who, with 
great action and energy of language, delivered his message ; and, 
if his eloquence pleased, they esteemed him as a god. Decorum 
was never broken; there were never two speakers struggling to 
anticipate each other; they did not express their spleen by blows; 
they restrained passionate invective ; the debate was never disturbed 
by an uproar; questions of order v/ere unknown. 

The record of their treaties was kept by strings of Avampum; 
these were their annals. When the envoys of nations met in 
solemn council, gift replied to gift, and belt to belt ; by these, the 
memory of the speaker was refreshed; or he would hold in his 
hand a bundle of little sticks, and for each of them dehver a mes- 
sage. To do this well, required capacity and experience. Each 
tribe had, therefore, its heralds or envoys, selected with reference 
only to their personal merit, and because they could speak well ; 
and often, an orator, without the aid of rank as a chief, by the 
brUhancy of his eloquence, swayed the minds of a confederacy. 
That the words of friendship might be transmitted safely through 
the wilderness, the red men revered the peace-pipe. The person of 
him that traveled with it was sacred; he could disarm the young 
warrior as by a speU, and secure himself a fearless welcome in 



THE AMERICAN INDIAN. 309 

every cabin. Each village also had its calumet, which was adorned 
by the chief with eagles' feathers, and consecrated in the general 
assembly of the nation. The envoys from those desiring peace or 
an aUiance, would come within a short distance of the town, and, 
uttering a cry, seat themselves on the ground. The great chief, 
bearing the peace-pipe of his tribe, with its mouth pointing to the 
skies, goes forth to meet them, accompanied by a long procession 
of his clansmen, chanting the hjnnn of peace. The strangers rise 
to receive them, singing also a song, to put away all wars, and to 
bury all revenge. As they meet, each party smokes the pipe of the 
other, and peace is ratified. The strangers are then conducted to 
the village ; the herald goes out into the street that divides the wig- 
wams, and makes repeated proclamation that the guests are friends ; 
3-nd the glory of the tribe is advanced by the profusion of bear's 
meat, and flesh of dogs, and hominy, which give magnificence to 
the banquets in honor of the embassy. 

But, if councils were their recreation, war alone was the ave- 
nue to glory. All other employment seemed unworthy of human 
dignity; in warfare against the brute creation, but still more against 
'nan, they sought hberty, happiness, and renown; thus was gained 
an honorable appellation, whUe the mean and the obscure among 
them had not even a name. Hence, to ask an Indian his name 
was an offense ; a chief would push the question aside with scorn ; 
for it implied that his deeds and the titles conferred by them were 
unknown. 

The code of war of the red men attests the freedom of their 
Hfe. No war-chief was appointed on accoimt of birth, but was, 
in every case, elected by opinion ; and every war-party was but a 
band of volunteers, enlisted for one special expedition, and for no 
more. Any one who, on chanting the war-song, could obtain vol- 
unteer followers, became a war-chief. 

Solemn feasts and reHgious rites precede the departure of the 
warriors; the war-dance must be danced, and the war-song sung. 
They express in their melodies a contempt of death, a passion for 
glory; and the chief boasts that "the spirits on high shall repeat 



SIO LEISURE HOUES., 



his name." A belt painted red or a bundle of bloociN, sticks, sent 
to the enemy, is a declaration of defiance. As the war-party leave 
the village, they address the women in a farewell hymn: "Do not 
weep for me, loved woman, should I die; weep for yourself alone. 
I go to revenge our relations fallen and slain ; our foes shall he like 
them; I go to lay them low." And, with the pride which ever 
marks the barbarian, each one adds, "If any man thinks himself a 
great warrior, I think myself- the same." 

The wars of the red men were terrible ; not from their num- 
bers, for, on any one expedition, they rarely exceeded forty men; 
it was the parties of six or seven which were the most to be 
dreaded. Skill consisted in surprising the enemy. They follow 
his trail, to kill him when he sleeps ; or they lie in ambush near a 
village, and watch for an opportunity of suddenly surprising an 
individual, or, it may be, a woman and her children; and, with 
three strokes to each, the scalps of the victims being suddenly 
taken off, the brave flies back with his companions, to hang the 
trophies in his cabin, to go from village to village in exulting pro- 
cession, to hear orators recount his deeds to the elders and the 
chief people, and, by the number of scalps taken with his own 
hand, to gain the high war-titles of honor. Nay, war-parties of 
but two or three were not uncommon. Clad in skins, with a sup- 
ply of red paint, a bow, and quiver full of arrows, they would 
roam through the wide forest, as a bark would over the ocean ; for 
days and weeks, they would hang on the skirts of their enemy, 
waiting the moment for striking a blow. It was the danger of such 
inroads, that, in time of war, made every English family on the 
frontier insecure. 

The Eomans, in their triumphal processions, exhibited cap- 
tives to the gaze of the Eoman people; the Indian conqueror com- 
pels them to run the gauntlet through the children and women of 
his tribe. To inflict blows that cannot be returned, is proof of full 
success, and the entire humiliation of their enemy; it is, more- 
over, an experiment of courage and patience. Those who show 
fortitude are applauded; the coward becomes an object of scorn. 



VOICES OF THE DEAD. 311 



Voices of ttie Dead. 

"He being dead yet speaketh." The departed have voices for 
us. In order to illustrate this, I remark, in the first place, that 
the dead speak to us, and commune with us, through the loorks 
ivhich they have left behind them. As the islands of the sea 
are the built-up casements of myriads of departed lives; as the 
eai-th itself is a great catacomb; — so we, who live and move upon 
its surface, inherit the productions and enjoy the fruits of the 
dead. They have bequeathed to us by far the larger portion of all 
that influences our thoughts, or mingles "with the circumstances of 
our daily hfe. We walk through the streets they laid out. We 
inhabit the houses they built. We practice the customs they es- 
tablished. We gather wisdom from the books they wrote. We 
pluck the ripe clusters of their experience. We boast in their 
achievements. Every device and influence they have left behind 
tells their story, and is a voice of the dead. We feel this more 
impressively when we enter the customary place of one recently 
departed, and look around upon his work. The haK-finished labor, 
the utensils hastily thrown aside, the material that exercised his 
care and received his last touch, all express him and seem alive 
with his presence. By them, though dead, he speaketh to us with 
a freshness and tone like his words of yesterday. How toitching 
are those sketched forms, those unfilled outhnes, in that picture 
which employed so fully the time and genius of the great artist — 
Belshazzar's Feast ! In the incomplete process, the transition state 
of an idea from its conception to its realization, we are brought 
closer to the mind of the artist; we detect its springs and hidden 
workings, and therefore feel its reality more than in the finished 
effort. And this is one reason why we are more impressed at be- 
holding the work just left than in gazing upon one that has been 
for a long time abandoned. Having had actual communion with 



312 LEISUEE HOURS. 



the contriving mind, we recognize its presence more readily in its 
production ; or else the recency of the departure heightens the ex- 
pressiveness with which everything speaks of the departed. The 
dead child's cast-off garments, the toy just tossed aside, startle us 
as though with his renewed presence. A year hence they will sug- 
gest him to us, but with a different effect, 

*■**-**** 

The dead speak to us in memory and association. If their 
voices may he constantly heard in their works, we do not always 
heed them ; neither have we that care and attachment for the great 
congregation of the departed, which will at any time call them up 
vividly before us. But in that congregation there are those whom 
we have known intimately and fondly, whom we cherished with 
our best love, who lay close to our bosoms, x^nd these speak to us 
in a more private and peculiar manner, — in mementoes that flash 
upon ITS the whole person of the departed, every physical and spir- 
itual hneament — in consecrated hours of recoUection that open up 
all the train of the past, and re-twine its broken ties around our 
hearts, and make its endearments present still. Then, Mien, 
though dead, they speak to us. It needs not the vocal utterance 
nor the living presence, but the mood that transforms the scene 
and the hour supplies these. That face that has slept so long in 
the grave, now bending upon us, pale and silent, but affectionate 
still; that more vivid recollection of every feature, tone, and move- 
ment, that brings before us the departed, just as we knew them in 
the full flush of life and health ; that soft and consecrating spell 
which falls upon us, drawing in our thoughts "from the present, ar- 
resting, as it were, the current of our being, and turning it back 
and holding it still as the flood of actual life rushes by us, — while 
in that trance of soul the beings of the past are shadowed; old 
friends, old days, old scenes recur; familiar looks beam close 
upon us; famfliar words re-echo in our ears, and we are 
closed up and absorbed with the by-gone, until tears dissolve 
the film from our eyes, and some shock of the actual wakefj 
us from our reverie ; aU these, I say, make the dead to commune 



VOICES OF THE DEAD. 313 

, with ns as really as though in bodily form they should come 
out from the chambers of their mysterious silence and speak 
to us. And if life consists in experiences, and not mere physical 
contacts — and if love and communion belong to that experience, 
though they take place in meditation, or dreams, or by actual con- 
tact — then, in that hour of remembrance, have we really Hved with 
the departed, and the departed have come back and lived with us. 
Though dead, they have spoken to us. And though memory some- 
times induces the spirit of heaviness — though it is often the agent 
of conscience and wakens us to chastise — yet it is wonderful how, 
from events that were deeply mingled with pain, it will extract an 
element of sweetness. A writer, in relating one of the experiences 
of her sick-room, has illustrated this. In an hour of suffering, 
when no one was near her, she went from her bed and her room to 
another apartment, ar>id looked upon a glorious landscape of sun- 
rise and Spring-time. "I was suffering too much to enjoy this 
picture at the moment," she says, "but how was it at the end of 
the year? The pains of all those hours were annihilated, as com- 
pletely vanished as if they had never been ; while the momentary 
peep behind the window-curtain made me possessor of this radiant 
picture f orevermore. " "Whence this wide difference," she asks, 
"between the good and the evil? Because the good is indissolubly 
connected with ideas — with the unseen realities which are inde- 
structible. " And though the illustration which she thus gives bears 
the impression of an individual peculiarity, instead of an universal 
truth, still, in the instance to which I apply it, I believe it 
will very generally hold true that memory leaves a pleasant rather 
than a painful impression. At least, there is so much that is 
pleasant mingled with it, that we would not willingly lose the 
faculty of memory — the consciousness that we can thus call 
back the dead and hear their voices — that we have the power 
of softening the rugged realities which only suggest our loss and 
disappointment, by transferring the scene and the hour to the past 
and the departed. And, as our conceptions become more and 
more spiritual, we shall find the real to be less dependent upon the 



314 LEISUEB HOUES. 



outward and tHe visible — we shall learn how mueh life there is in a 
thought — how veritable are the communions of spirit with spirit; 
and the hour in which memory gives us the voices of the dead will 
be prized by us as an hour of actual experience, and such oppor- 
tunities will grow more precious to us. No, we would not wilhngly 

lose the power of memory. 

********* 

Well, then, is it for us at times to hsten to the voices of the 
dead. By so doing we are better fitted for hfe and for death. From 
that audience we go purified and strengthened into the varied dis- 
cipline of our mortal state. We are wilhng to stay knowing that 
the dead are so near us, and that our communion with them may 
be so intimate. We are wiUing to go seeing that we shall not be 
wholly separated from those we leave behind. We will toU in our 
lot while God pleases, and when He summons us we wiU calmly 
depart. When the silver cord becomes untwined, and the golden 
bowl broken — when the wheel of action stands stUl in the ex- 
hausted cistern of our life, may we lie down in the hght of that 
faith which makes so beautiful the face of the dying Christian, and 
has converted death's ghastly silence to a peaceful sleep. May we 
rise to a hoher and more visible communing, in the land without 
a sin and without a tear. Where the dead shall be closer to us 
thn,n in this life. Where not the partition of a shadow or a doubt 
shall come between. 




THE HEAD-STONE. 315 



The Head-Stone. 

The coffin was let down to the bottom of the grave, the planks 
were removed from the heaped-up brink, the first rattling clods had 
struck their knell, the quick shoveling was over, and the long, broad, 
skillfully cut pieces of turf were aptly joined together, and trimly 
laid by the beating spade, so that the newest mound ia the church- 
yard was scarcely distinguishable from those that were grown over 
by the undisturbed grass and daisies of a luxuriant Spring. The 
burial was soon over; and the party, with one consenting motion, 
having uncovered their heads, in decent reverence of the place and 
occasion, were beginning to separate, and about to leave the church- 
yard. 

Here, some acquaintances, from distant parts of the parish, 
who had not had an opportunity of addressing each other in the 
house that had belonged to the deceased, nor in the course of 
the few hundred yards that the httle procession had to move over 
from his bed to his grave, were shaking hands quietly, but cheer- 
fully, and inquiring after the welfare of each other's famUies. 
There, a small knot of neighbors were speaking, without exaggera- 
tion, of the respectable character which the deceased had borne, 
and mentioning to one another Httle incidents of his hfe, some of 
them so remote as to be known only to the gray-headed persons of 
the group; while a few yards further removed from the spot, were 
standing together parties, who discussed ordinary concerns, alto- 
together unconnected with the funeral, such as the state of the 
markets, the promise of the season, or change of tenants; but still 
with a sobriety of manner and voice that was insensibly produced 
by the influence of the simple ceremony now closed, by the quiet 
graves around, and the shadow of the spire and gray walls of the 
house of God. 

Two men yet stood together at the head of the grave, with 



316 LEISURE HOURS. 



countenances of sincere, but unimpassioned grief. They were 
brothers, the only sons of him who had been buried. And there 
was something in their situation that naturally kept the eyes of 
many directed upon them, for a long time, and more intently than 
would have been the case, had there been nothing more observable 
about them than the common symptoms of a common sorrow. 
But these two brothers, who were now standing at the head of their 
father's grave, had for some years been. totally estranged from each 
other, and the only words that had passed between them, during 
all that time, had been uttered within a few days past, during the 
necessary preparations for the old man's funeral. 

No deep and deadly quarrel was between these brothers, and 
neither of them could distinctly tell the cause of this unnatural 
estrangement. Perhaps dim jealousies of their father's favor; self- 
ish thoughts that will sometimes force themselves into poor men's 
hearts respecting temporal expectations; unaccommodating man- 
ners on both sides; taunting words, that mean little when uttered, 
but which rankle and fester in remembrance ; imagined opposition 
of interests, that, duly considered, would have been found one and 
the same ; these, and many other causes, shght when single, but 
strong when rising up together in one baneful band, had gradually 
but fatally infected their hearts, till at last they, who in youth had 
been seldom separate, and truly attached, now met at market and, 
miserable to say, at church, with dark and averted faces, Hke differ- 
ent clansmen during a feud. 

Surely if anything could have softened their hearts toward 
each other, it must have been to stand silently, side by side, while 
the earth, stones, and clods, were falling down upon their father's 
coffin. And doubtless their hearts were so softened. But pride, 
though it can not prevent the holy affections of nature from being 
felt, may prevent them from being shown ; and these two brothers 
stood there together, determined not to let each other know the 
mutual tenderness that, in spite of them, was gushing up in their 
hearts, and teaching them the unconfessed folly ani wickedness of 
their causeless quarrel. 



BBIER-ROSE. 317 



Brier-Rose. 



I. 



Said Brier-Rose's mother to the naughty Brier-Eose, 
"What will become of you, my cnild, the Lord Almighty knows. 
You will not scrub the kettles, and you will not touch the broom; 
You never sit a minute still at spinning-wheel or loom." 

. Thus grumbled in the morning, and grumbled late at eve, 
The good wife, as she bustled with pot and tray and sieve; 
But Brier-Rose, she laughed and she cocked her dainty head: 
"Why, I shall marry. Mother dear," full merrily she said. 

"You marry, saucy Brier- Rose! The man, he is not found 
To marry such a worthless wencb, these seven leagues around." 
But Brier- Rose, she laughed and she thrilled a merry lay 
"Perhaps he'll come, my Mother dear, from eighty leagues away." 

The good wife with a "humph" and a sigh forsook the battle, 
And flung her pots and pails about with much vindictive rattle : 
"0 Lord, what sin did I commit in youthful days and wild. 
That thou hast punished me in age with such a wayward child. 

Up stole the girl on tiptoe, so that none her step could hear. 
And laughing, pressed an airy kiss behind the good wife's ear. 
And she, as e'er, relenting, sighed: "Oh, Heaven only knows 
Whatever will become of you, my naughty Brier-Rose!" 

The sun was high, and summer sounds were teeming in the air; 
The clank of scythes, tiie cricket's whir, and swelling wood-notes 

rare, 
From field and copse and meadow; and through the open door 
Sweet fragrant whiffs of new-mown hay the idle breezes bore. 



318 LEISURE HOUES. 



Then Brier-Eose grew pensive, like a bird of thoughtful mien, 
Whose little life has problems among the branches green. 
She heard the river brawling where the tide was swift and strong, 
She heard the summer singing its strange, alluring song. 

And out she skipped the meadows o'er and gazed into the sky ; 
Her heart o'erbrimmed with gladness, she scarce herself knew why. 
And to a merry tune she hummed, "Oh, Heaven only knows 
Whatever will become of that naughty Brier-Eose !" 

Whene'er a thrifty matron this idle maid espied. 
She shook her head in warning, and scarce her wrath could hide, 
For girls were made for housewives, for spinning-wheel and loom. 
And not to drink the sunshine and wild-flower's sweet perfume. 

And oft the maidens cried, when the Brier-Eose went by, 
"You cannot knit a stocking, and you cannot make a pie." 
But Brier-Eose, as was her wont, she cocked her curly head: 
"But I can sing a pretty song," full merrily she said. 

And oft the young lads shouted, when they saw the maid at play: 
"Ho, good-for-nothing Brier-Eose, how do you do to-day?" 
Then she shook her tiny fist, to her cheeks the color flew: 
"How ever much you coax me, I'll never dance with you." 

n. 

Thus flew the years light-winged over Brier- Eose's head, 
Till she was twenty summers old, and yet remained unwed. 
And all the parish wondered: "The Lord Almighty knows 
Whatever wiU become of that naughty Brier-Eose!" 

And while they wondered came the Spring a-dancing o'er the hills ; 
Her breath was warmer than of yore, and all the mountain riils. 
With their tinkling and their rippling and their rushing, filled the 

air. 
And the misty sounds of water forth- welling everywhere. 



BRIEK-ROSE. 319 



And in the valley's depth, like a lusty beast of prey, 

The river leaped and roared aloud and tossed its mane of spray ; 

Then hushed again its voice to a softly plashing croon, 

As dark it rolled beneath the sun and white beneath the moon. 

It was a merry sight to see the lumber as it whirled 
Adown the tawny eddies that hissed and seethed and swirled. 
Now shooting through the rapids, and, with a reeling swing, 
Into the foam-crests diving like an animated thing. 

But in the narrows of the rocks, where o'er a steep incline 

The waters plunged and wi'eathed in foam the dark boughs of the 

pine. 
The lads keep watch with shout and song, and sent each straggling 

beam 
A-spinning down the rapids, lest it should lock the stream. 

in. 

And yet — methinks I hear it now — wild voices in the night, 
A rush of feet, a dog's harsh bark, a torch's flaring light, 
And wandering gusts of dampness, and round us far and nigh, 
A throbbing boom of water like a pulse-beat in the sky. 

The dawn just pierced the pallid East with spears of gold and red. 
As we, with boat-hooks in our hands, toward the narrows sped. 
And terror smote us; for we heard the mighty tree-tops sway, 
And thunder, as of chariots, and hissing showers of spray. 

"Now, lads," the sheriff shouted, "you are strong, like Norway's rock; 
A hundred crowns I give to him who'breaks the lumber lock ! 
For if another hour go by, the angry waters' spoil 
Our homes will be, and fields, and our weary years of toil." 

We looked each at the other; each hoped his neighbor would 
Brave death and danger for his home, as valiant Norsemen should. 



320 LEISURE HOURS. 



But at our feet the brawling tide expanded like a lake, 
And whirling beams came shooting on, and made the firm rock 
quake. 

"Two hundred crowns!" the sheriff cried, and breathless stood the 

crowd. 
"Two hundred crowns, my bonnj lads!" in anxious tones and loud. 
But not a man came forward, and no one spoke or stirred, 
And nothing save the thunder of the cataract was heard. 

But as with trembling hands and with fainting hearts we stood, 

We spied a little curly head emerging from the wood. 

We heard a little snatch of a merry little song, 

And saw the dainty Brier-Eose come dancing through the throng. 

An angry murmur rose from the people round about. 
"Fling her into the river!" we heard the matrons shout; 
"Chase her away, the silly thing; for God himself scarce knows 
Why ever he created the worthless Brier-Eose." 

Sweet Brier-Eose, she heard their cries ; a little pensive smile 
Across her fair face flitted, that might a stone beguile; 
And then she gave her pretty head a roguish little cock ; 
"Hand me a boat-hook, lads," she said; "I think I'll break the 
lock." 

Derisive shouts of laughter broke from throats of young and old; 
"Ho! good-for-nothing Brier-Eose, your tongue was ever bold." 
And, mockingly, a boat-hook into her hands was flung, 
When, lo! into the river's midst with daring leaps she sprung 1 

We saw her dimly through a mist of dense and blinding spray; 
I^rom beam to beam she skipped, like a water-sprite at play; 
And now and then faint gleams we caught of color through the 

mist; 
A crimson waist, a golden head, a little dainty wrist. 



BEIER-KOSE. 321 



In terror pressed fchepeople to the margin of the hill; 

A hundred breaths were bated, a hundred hearts stood still; 

For, hark! from out the rapids came a strange and creaking sound, 

And then a crash of thunder which shook the very ground. 

The waters hurled the lumber mass down o'er the rocky steep; 
We heard a muffled lumbling and a rolling in the deep; 
We saw a tiny form which the torrent swiftly bore 
And flung into the wild abyss, where it was seen no more. 

Ah, little naughty Brier-Kose, thou could'st not weave nor spin; 
Yet thou could'st do a nobler deed than all thy mocking kin ; 
For thou had'st courage e'en to die, and by thy death to save 
A thousand farms and lives from the fury of the wave. 

And yet the adage lives, in the valley of thy birth; 

When wayward children spend their days in heedless play and 

mirth , 
Oft mothers say, half-smiling, half-sighing, "Heaven knows 
Whatever will become of the naughty Brier-Rose!" 




322 LEISURE HOURS. 



The Little Reader. 

How quiet the house is at midnight. The people who talk 
and laugh and sing in it are asleep, and the people who fell asleep 
in it long ago come back into it. Every house has these two 
classes of tenants. Do we love best those with whom we can talk 
and laugh and sing, or the dear silent ones who come so noise- 
lessly to our side and whisper to us in faint, sweet, far-away 
whispers that have no sound, so that we only hear their very 
stillness ? 

I am not tired, but my pen is weary. It falls from my fingers 
and I raise my head. I start to leave the table and my eyes fall 
upon a little book lying on the floor. It is a little "First Eeader." 
He left it there this afternoon. I remember just how I was impatient 
because he could not read the simple little lesson, such an easy les- 
son, and I told him it was a waste of my time to teach him, and 
pushed him away from me. I remember now. I see the flush come 
into the little tired face, the brave, cheerful look in his eyes, his 
mother's brave, patient cheeriness, struggling with his disappoint- 
ment and pain. I see him lie down oh the floor and the little face 
bend over the troublesome lesson, any baby might read it. Then, 
after a little struggle alone, it has to be given up, and the baffled 
little soldier, with one more appealing look towards me for rein- 
forcements, sighs and goes away from the lesson he cannot read 
to the play that comforts him. And there lies the little book just 
as he left it. Ah, me, I could kneel down and kiss it now, as 
though it were alive and loving. 

Why, what was my time worth to me to-day? What was 
there in the book I wanted to read one half so precious to me as one 
cooing word from the prattling lips that quivered when I turned 
them away? I hated the book I read. I will never look at it 
again. Were it the last book in the world, I think I would burn 



THE LITTLE READER. 323 



it. All its gracious words are lies. I say to you, though aU men 
praise the book, and, though an hour ago I thought it excellent, 
I say to you there is poison in its hateful pages. Why, what can I 
learn from books that baby lips cannot teach me? Do you know I 
want to go to the door of his room and listen; the house is so still; 
maybe he is not breathing. Why, if between my book and my boy 
I choose my book, why should not God leave me with my books? 
My hateful books ! 

But I was not harsh. I was only a little impatient. Because, 
you see, his lesson was so easy, so simple. Ah, me, there were 
two of us trying to read this afternoon. There were two easy, 
simple lessons. Mine was such a very simple, easy, pleasant, 
loving one to learn. Jast a line,- just a little throb of patience, of 
gentleness, of love, that would have made my own heart glow and 
laugh and sing. The letters were so large and plain, the words so 
easy and the sentences so short. And I? Oh, pity me, I missed 
every word. I did not read one line aright. See, here is my copy 
now; all blurred and blistered with tears and heartache, all 
marred and misspelled and blotted. I am ashamed to show it to 
the Master. And yet I know He will be patient with me. I know 
how loving and gentle He has been these years while teaching me 
this simple lesson I failed upon to-day. But when my little pupil 
stumbled on a single word — is my time, then, so much more pre- 
cious than the Master's that I cannot teach the little lesson more 
than once? 

Ah, friend, we do not waste time when we plait scourges for 
ourselves. These hurrying days,' these busy, anxious, shrewd, 
ambitious times of ours are wasted when they take our hearts 
away from patient gentleness, and give us fame for love and gold 
for kisses. Some day, then, when our hungry souls will seek for 
bread our selfish good will give us a stone. Life is not a deep, 
profound, perplexing problem. It is a simple, easy lesson such as 
any child may read. You cannot find its solution in the ponder- 
ous tomes of the old fathers, the philosophers, the investigators, 



324 LEISURE HOURS. 



the theorists. It is not on our book shelves. But in the warmest 
corner of the most unlettered heart it glows in letters that the 
blindest may read; a sweet, plain, simple, easy, loving lesson. 
And when you have learned it, brother of mine, the world will be 
better and happier. 



The First Grandchild. 

"Grandmother!" called the farmer, and there came 
Out of the vine-wreathed porch a blushing dame. 
Surprised and eager at the strange new name. 

The clock within rang forth the chime of eight. 
"A message? Eead it — quick — how can you wait?" 
Her husband, smiling, leaned upon the gate. 

At arm's length, holding in his trembling hand 
The crisp white sheet, while he the writing scanned. 
Then read once more with voice almost unmanned : 

"Thy granddaughter salutes thee, 'Baby Bell' — 
Mother and child, thank God, are doing well." 
A moment's silence on the proud twain fell. 

She broke it soon. "Grandfather, I congrat — " 
"What me!" the good man cried, lifting his hat — 
" 'Grandfather' — me? I hadn't thought of that." 



STUDIES. 325 



Studies. 



Studies serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. Their 
chief use for delight, is in privateness and retiring ; for ornament, is 
in discourse ; and for abihty, is in the judgment and disposition of 
business; for expert men can execute, and perhaps judge of , partic- 
ulars, one by one; but the general councils, and the plots and mar- 
shaUing of affairs, come best from those that are learned. To 
spend too much time in studies, is sloth; to use them too much for 
ornament, is affectation ; to make judgment wholly by their rules, 
is the humor of a scholar; they perfect nature, and are perfected 
by experience — for natural abHities are like natural plants, that 
need pruning by study ; and studies themselves do give forth direc- 
tions too much at large, except they be bounded in by experience. 
Crafty men contemn studies, simple men admire them, and wise 
men use them ; for they teach not their own use ; but that is a wis- 
dom without them, and above them, won by observation. Eead 
not to contradict and confute, nor to beheve and take for granted, 
nor to find talk and discourse, but to weigh and consider. Some 
books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be 
chewed and digested; that is, some books are to be read only in 
parts ; others to be read, but not curiously ; and some few to be 
read wholly, and with dihgence and attention. Some books also 
may be read by deputy, and extracts made of them by others ; but 
that would be only in the less important arguments, and the meaner 
sort of books; else distilled books are, like common distilled waters, 
flashy things. Beading maketh a full man, conference a ready 
man, and writing an exact man ; and therefore if a man write little, 
he had need have a great memory; if -he confer httle, he had need 
have a present wit; and if he read little, he had need have much 
cunning to seem to know that he doth not. 



326 LEISURE HOURS 



Of Beauty. 

Virtue is like a rich stone, best plain set; and surely virtue is 
best in a body that is comely, though not of delicate features, and 
that hath rather dignity of presence than beauty of aspect ; neither 
is it always seen, that very beautiful persons are otherwise of great 
virtue ; as if nature were rather busy not to err, than in labor to 
produce excellency ; and therefore they prove accomplished, but not 
of great spirit; and study rather behavior than virtue. But this 
holds not always; for Augustus Cassar, Titus Vespasianus, PhUiple 
Bel of France, Edward IV of England, Alcibiades of Athens, 
Ismael, the sophi of Persia, were aU high and great spirits, and 
yet the most beautiful men of their times. In beauty, that of 
favor is more than that of color; and that of decent and gracious 
motion more than that of favor. That is the best part of beauty 
which a picture cannot express; no, nor the first sight of the hfe. 
There is no excellent beauty that hath not some strangeness in the 
proportion. A man cannot tell whether AppeUes or Albert Durer 
were the more trifler; whereof one would make a personage by 
geometrical proportions ; the other, by taking the best parts out 
of divers faces to make one excellent. Such j)ersonages, I think, 
would please nobody but the painter that made them ; not but I 
think a painter may make a better face than ever was; but he 
must do it by a kind of fehcity (as a musician that maketh an excel- 
lent air in music), and not by rule. 

A man shall see faces, that, if you examine them part by part, 
you shall find never a good ; and yet altogether do well. If it be 
true that the principal part of beauty is in decent motion, certainly 
it is no marvel though persons in years seem many times more 
amiable; pulchroniTn autuninus pulcher; for no youth can be 
comely but by pardon, and considering the youth as to make up the 
eomeliness. Beauty is as Summer fruits, which are easy to corrupt 



LILY'S RIDE: OR, A RACE AGAINST TIME. 327 



and cannot last; and, for the most part, it makes a dissolute youth, 
and an age a little out of countenance ; but yet certainly again, if 
it light well, it maketh virtues shine, and vices blush. 



Lily's Ride; or, A Race Against Time. 

The sketch -which we give below is one of the finest in our language. Lily had 
been notified that her father's life was in danger. In order to give him warning, she 
must be at the station when his train arrived. This would prevent his intended visit 
to a friend in the country, and probably save his life. 

"Wnham," said Lily, as the stable-boy appeared, " put my sad- 
dle on Young Lollard, and bring him round as quick as possible," 

" But, Miss LUy, you know dat hoss — " the servant began to 
expostulate. 

" I know all about him, WUliam. Don't wait to talk. Bring 
him out." 

"All right. Miss Lily," he rephed with a bow and a scrape. 
But, as he went toward the stable, he soliloquized augidly : " Now, 
what for Miss LUy want to ride dat pertikerler hoss, you spose? 
Never did afore. Nobody but de kunnel ebber on his back, and lie 
hab his hands full wid him sometimes. Dese furrer-bred bosses 
jes' de debbil anyhow ! Bar's dat Young Lollard now, it's jest 'bout 
all a man's hfe's wuth ter rub him down an' saddle him. Why 
can't she take de ole un ! Here you, Lollard, come outen dat ! " 

He threw open the door of the log stable where the horse had 
his quarters as he spoke, and almost instantly, with a short, vicious 
whinny, a. powerful, dark brown horse leaped into the moonlight, 
and with ears laid back upon his sinuous neck, white teeth bare, 
and thin, blood-red nostrils distended, rushed toward the servant, 
who, with a loud, "Bar now! Look at him! Whoa! See de 
dam rascal!" retreated quickly behind the door. The horse rushed 
once or twice around the little stable-yard, and then stopped sud- 



328 LEISURE HOURS. 



deialy beside his keeper, and stretched out his head for the bit, quiv- 
ering in every hmb with that excess of vitahty which only the 
thoroughbred horse ever exhibits. He was anxious for the bit and 
saddle, because they meant exercise, a race, an opportunity to 
show his speed, which the thoroughbred recognizes as the one great 
end of his existence. 

Before the horse was saddled, Lily had donned her riding 
habit, put a revolver in her belt, as she very frequently did when 
riding alone, swallowed a hasty supper, scrawled a short note to 
her mother on the envelope of the letter she had received — which 
she charged "William at once to carry to her — and was ready to 
start on a night-ride to Glenville. She had only been there across 
the country once; but she thought she knew the way, or at least 
was so familiar with the "lay" of the country that she could find it. 

The brawny groom with difficulty held the restless horse by the 
bit; but the slight girl, who stood upon the block with pale face 
and set teeth, gathered the reins in her hand, leaped fearlessly into 
the saddle, found the stirrup, and said, "Let him go!" without a 
quiver in her voice. The man loosed his hold. The horse stood 
upright, and pawed the air for a moment with his feet, gave a few 
mighty leaps to make sure of his hberty, and then, stretching out 
his neck, bounded forward in a race which would require all the 
mettle of his endless hne of noble sires. Almost without 
words, her errand had become known to the household of servants; 
and as she flew down the road, her bright hair gleaming in the 
moonhght, old Maggie, sobbing and tearful, was yet so impressed 
with admiration, that she could only say: — 

" De Lor' bress her! 'Pears like dat chUe ain't 'fear'd o' 
noffin!" 

As she was borne like an arrow down the avenue, and turned 
into the Glenville road, Lily heard the whistle of the train as it left 
the depot at Verdenton, and knew that upon her coolness and res- 
olution alone depended the life of her father. It was, perhaps, well 
for the accomplishment of her purpose, that, for some time after 
setting out on her perilous journey, Lily Servosse had enough to do 



LILY'S RIDE; OR, A RACE AGAINST TIME. 329 

to maintam her seat and, guide and eontrol lier horse. Young 
Lollard, whom the servant had so earnestly remonstrated against 
her taking, added to the noted pedigree of his sire the special excel- 
lence of the Grlencoe strain of his dam, from whom he inherited 
also a darker coat, and that touch of native savageness which char- 
acterizes the stock of Emancipator, Upon both sides his blood was 
as pure as that of the great kings of the tm-f, and what we have 
termed his savagery was more excess of spirit than any inclination 
to do mischief. It was that imcontrollable desire of the thorough- 
bred horse to be always doing his best, which made him restless of 
the bit and curb, while the native sagacity of his race had led him 
to practice somewhat on the fears of his groom. With that care 
which only the true lover of the horse can appreciate, Colonel Ser- 
vosse had watched over the growth and training of Young Lollard, 
hoping to see him rival, if he did not surpass, the excellencies of his 
sire. In everything but temper, he had been gratified at the result. 
In build, power, speed, and endurance, the horse offered all that 
the most fastidious could desire. In ordei to prevent the one de- 
fect of a quick temper from developing into a vice, the colonel had 
established an inflexible rule that no one should ride him but him- 
self. His great interest in the colt had led Lily, who inherited all 
her father's love for the noble animal, to look very carefully dur- 
ing his enforced absences after the welfare of his favorite. Once 
or twice she had summarily discharged grooms who were guilty of 
disobeying her father's injunctions, and had always made it a rule 
to visit his stall every day; so that although she had never ridden 
him, the horse was familiar with her person and voice. 

It was weU for her that this was the case ; for, as she dashed 
away with the speed of the wind, she felt how powerless she was to 
restrain him by means of the bit. Nor did she attempt. Merely 
feeling his mouth, and keeping her eye upon the road before him, 
in order that no sudden start to right or left should take her by 
surprise, she cooUy kept her seat, and tried to soothe him by her 
voice. 

With head outstretched and sinewy neck strained to its utter- 



330 LEISURE HOURS. 



most, he flew ever the ground in a wild, mad raee with the evening 
wind, as it seemed. Without jerk or strain, but easily and steadily 
as the falcon flies, the high-bred horse skimmed along the ground. 
A mile, two, three miles were made, in time that would have done 
honor to the staying quality of his sires, and still his pace had 
not slackened. He was now nearing the river into which fell the 
creek that ran by Warrington. As he went down the long slope 
that led to the ford, his rider tried in vain to check his speed. 
Pressure upon the bit but resulted in an impatient shaking of the 
head, and laying back of the ears. He kept up his magnificent 
stride until he had reached the very verge of the river. There he 
stopped, threw up his head in inquiry, as he gazed upon the fretted 
waters lighted up by the full moon, glanced back at his rider, and 
with a word of encouragement from her marched proudly into the 
waters, casting up a silver spray at each step. Lily did not miss 
this opportunity to establish more intimate relations with her steed. 
She patted his neck, praised him lavishly, and took occasion to as- 
sume control of him while he was in the deepest part of the chan- 
nel, turning him this way and that much more than was needful, 
simply to accustom him to obey her will. 

When he came out on the other bank, he would have resumed 
his gaUop almost at once, but she required him to walk to the top 
of the hjQl. The night was growing chilly by this time. As the 
wind struck her at the hill-top, she remembered that she had 
thrown a hooded watei-proof about her before starting. She stopped 
her horse, and taking off her hat, gathered her long hair into a 
mass, and thrust it into the hood, which she threw ever her head 
and pressed her hat down on it; then she gathered the reins, and 
they went on in that long, steady stride which marks the high-bred 
horse when he gets thoroughly down to his work. Once or twice 
she drew rein to examine the landmarks, and determine which road 
to take. Sometimes her way lay through the forest, and she was 
startled by the cry of the owl; anon it was through the reedy bot- 
tom land, and the half-wild hogs, starting from their lairs, gave 
her an instant's fright. The moon cast strange shadows around 



LILY'S EIDE; OE, A EACE AGAINST TIME. 331 

her, but still she pushed on, with this one only thought in her 
mind, that her father's life was at stake, and she alone could save 

She glanced at her watch as she passed from under the shade 
ot the oaks, and, as she held the dial up to the moonlight, gave a 
scream of joy. It was just past the stroke of nine. She had stUl . 
an hour, and half the distance had been accomphshed in half that 
time. She had no fear of her horse. Pressing on now in the 
swinging fox walk which he took whenever the character of the 
road or the mood of his rider demanded, there was no sign of 
weariness. As he threw his head upon one side and the other, as 
if asking to be allowed to press on, she saw his dark eye gleam 
with the fire of the inveterate racer. His thin nostrils were dis- 
tended, but his breath came regularly and full. She had not for- 
gotten, even in her haste and fright, the lessons her father had 
taught; but, as soon as she could control her horse, she had spared 
him, and compelled him to husband his strength. Her spirits rose 
at the prospect. She even caroled a bit of exultant song as Young 
Lollard swept on through a forest of towering pines, with a white 
sand-cushion stretched beneath his feet. The fragrance of the pines 
came to her nostrils, and with it the thought of frankincense, and 
that brought up the hymns of her childhood. The Star in the 
East, the Babe of Bethlehem, the Great Dehverer — all swept across 
her rapt vision ; and then came the priceless j)romise, "I wiU not 
leave thee, nor forsake thee." 

Stni on and on the brave horse bore her Avith untiring Hmb. 
Half the remaining distance is now consumed, and she comes to a 
place where the road forks, not once, but into four branches. It is 
in the midst of a level, old field covered with a thick growth of 
scrubby pines. Through the masses of thick green are white 
lanes which stretch away in every direction, with no visible differ- 
ence save in the density or frequency of the shadows which fall 
across them. She tries to think which of the many intersecting 
paths lead to her destination. She tries this, and then that, for a 
few steps, consults the stars to determine in what direction Glen- 



332 LEISUEE HOIJKS. 



ville lies, and has almost decided upon the first to the right, when 
she hears a sound which turns her blood to ice in her veins. * * 
Hardly had she placed herself in hiding, before the open space 
around the intersecting roads was ahve with disguised horsemen. 
She could catch ghmpses of their figures as she gazed through the 
clustering pines. * * * * (From a conversation among the 
horsemen, she learns which road leads to Glenville.) Lily, with 
her revolver ready cocked in her hand, turned, and cautiously made 
her way to the road which had been indicated as the one which led 
to Glenville. Just as her horse stepped into the path, an over- 
hanging hmb caught her hat, and pulled it off, together with the 
hood of her waterproof, so that her hair fell down again upon her 
shoulders. She hardly noticed the fact in her excitement, and, if 
she had, could not have stopped to repair the accident. She kept 
her horse upon the shady side, walking upon the grass as much as 
possible to prevent attracting attention, watching on all sides for 
any scattered members of the clan. She had proceeded thus about 
a hundred and fifty yards, when she came to a turn in the road, 
and saw, sitting before her in the moonhght, one of the disguised 
horsemen, evidently a sentry who had been stationed there to see 
that no one came upon the camp unexpectedly. He was facing the 
other way, but just at that instant turned, and, seeing her indis- 
tinctly in the shadow, cried out at once — 

"Who's there? Halt!" 

They were not twenty yards apart. Young Lollard was trem- 
bhng with excitement under the tightly drawn rein. Lily thought 
of her father half prayerfully, hah fiercely, bowed close over her 
horse's neck, and braced herself in the saddle, with every muscle 
as tense as those of the tiger waiting for his leap. Almost before 
the words were out of the sentry's mouth, she had given Young 
Lollard the spur, and shot hke an arrow into the bright moonhght, 
straight toward the black, muffled horseman. 

"My God!" he cried, amazed at the sudden apparition. 

She was close upon him in an instant. There was a shot ; his 
startled horse sprang aside, and Lily, urging Young Lollard to his 



LllifS RIDE; OR, A RACE AGAINST TIME. 333 

utmost speed, was flying down tlie road toward Glenville, She 
heard an uproar behind — shouts, and one or two shots. On, on. 
she sped. She knew now every foot of the road beyond. She 
looked back, and saw her pursuers swarming out of the wood into 
the moonhght. Just then she was in a shadow. A mile, two 
nules, were passed. She drew in her horse to hsten. There was 
the noise of a horse's hoofs coming down a hill she had just de- 
scended, as her gallant steed bore her, almost with undiminished 
stride, up the opposite slope. She laughed, even in her terrible 
excitement, at the very thought that any one should attempt to 
overtake her. 

"They'll have fleet steeds thatfoUow, quoth yoimg Lochinvar," 
she hmnmed as she patted Yoimg Lollard's outstretched neck. 
She turned when they reached the summit, her long hair streaming 
backward in the moonhght hke a golden banner, and saw the soh- 
tary horseman on the opposite slope ; then turned back, and passed 
over the hill. * * * * 

The train from Venderton had reached and left Glenville. The 
incomers had been divided between the rival hotels, the porters had 
removed the luggage, and the agent was just entering his office, 
when a foam-flecked horse with bloody nostiils and fiery eyes, rid- 
den by a young girl with a white, set face, and fair, flowing hair, 
dashed up to the station. 

"Judge Denton!" the rider shrieked. The agent had but time 
to motion with his hand, and she had swept on toward a carriage 
which was being swiftly driven away from the station, and which 
was just visible at the turn of the village street. 

"Papa, Papa!" shrieked the girhsh voice as she swept on. 

A frightened face glanced backward from the carriage, and in 
an instant Comfort Servosse was standing in the path of the rush- 
ing steed. 

"Ho, LoUard!" he shouted, in a voice which rang over the 
sleepy town like a trumpet-note. 

The amazed horse veered quickly to one side, and stopped as 
if stricken to stone, while Lily fell insensible into her father's arms* 



334 LEISURE HOURS. 



When she recovered, he was bending over her with a look in his 
eyes which she wUl never forget. 



Prosperity and Adversity. 

The virtue of prosperity is temperance; the virtue of adver- 
sity is fortitude. Prosperity is the blessing of the Old Testament; 
adversity is the blessing of the New, which carrieth the greater 
benediction, and the clearer revelation of God's favor. Yet even 
in the Old Testament, if you Hsten to David's haqo, you shaU hear 
as many hearse-hke airs as carols; and the pencil of the Holy 
Ghost has labored more in describing the afflictions of Job than 
the felicities of Solomon, Prosperity is not without many fears 
and distastes ; and adversity is not without comforts and hopes. 
We see in needleworks and embroideries, it is more pleasing to 
have a lively work upon a sad and solemn ground, than to have a 
dark and melancholy work upon a lightsome ground; judge, there- 
fore, of the pleasure of the heart by the pleasure of the eye. Cer- 
tainly, virtue is like precious odors, most fragrant where they are 
incensed or crushed; for prosperity doth best discover vice, but 
adversity doth best discover virtue. 




A MOTHBE'S LOVE. 335 



A Mother's Love. 

Some day, 
"When others braid your thick brown hair, 

And drape your form in silk and lace ; 
When others call you "dear and fair," 

And hold your hands and kiss your face, 
You'll not forget that far above 
All others is a mother's love. 

Some day, 
'Mong strangers in far distant lands, 

In your new home beyond the seas. 
When at your lips are baby hands. 

And children playing at your knees — 
Oh, then, as at your side they grow, 
How I have loved you, you may know. 

Some day, 
When you must feel love's heavy loss, 

You will remember other years. 
When I, too, bent beneath the cross. 

And mix my memory with the tears. 
In such dark hours be not afraid; 
Within their shadow I have prayed. 

Some day, 
Your daughter's voice, or smile, or eyes, 

My face will suddenly recall. 
Then you wiU smile in sweet surprise, 

And your soul unto mine will call 
In that dear unforgotten prayer. 
Which we at evening used to share. 



336 LEISURE HOURS. 



Some day, 
A flower, a song, a word, may be, 

A link between us strong and sweet; 
Ah, then, dear child, remember me, 

And let your heart to mother beat. 
My love is with you everywhere — 
You cannot get beyond my prayer. 

Some day. 
At longest it cannot be long, 

I shall with glad impatience wait 
A.mid the glory and the song, 

For you before the golden gate. 
After earth's parting and earth's pain, 
Never to part. Never again. 



ON REVENGE. 337 



On Revenge. 

A wise man will make haste to forgive, because he knows the 
true value of time, and. will not suffer it to pass away in unnecessary 
pain. He that willingly suffers the corrosions of inveterate hatred, 
and gives up his days and nights to the gloom and mahce and per- 
turbations of strategem, cannot surely be said to consult his ease. 
Eesentment is a union of sorrow with mahgnity, a combination of 
a passion which all endeavor to avoid, with a passion which all con- 
cur to detest. The man who retires to meditate mischief, and to 
exasperate his own rage — whose thoughts are employed only on 
means of distress and contrivances of ruin — whose mind never 
pauses for the remembrance of his own sufferings, but to indulge 
some hope of enjoying the calamities of another — may justly be 
numbered among the most miserable of human beings, among 
those who are guilty without reward, who have neither the gladness 
of prosperity nor the calm of innocence. Whoever considers the 
weakness both of himself and others, will not long want persua- 
sives to forgiveness. We know not to what degree of mahgnity 
any injury is to be imputed; or how much its guilt, if we were to 
inspect the mind of him that committed it, would be extenuated by 
mistake, precipitance, or neghgence; we cannot be certain how 
much more we feel than was intended to be inflicted, or how much 
we increase the mischief to ourselves by voluntary aggravations. 
We may charge to design the effects of accident; we may think the 
blow violent only because we have made ourselves delicate and ten- 
der; we are on every side in danger of error and of guilt which we 
are certain to avoid only by speedy forgiveness. 

From this pacific and harmless temper, thus propitious to 
others and ourselves, to domestic tranquility and to social happi- 
ness, no man is withheld but by pride, by the fear of being insulted 
by his adversary, or despised by the world. It may be laid down 



338 LEISUEE HOURS. 



as an unfailing and universal axiom, that 'all pride is abject and 
mean.' It is always an ignorant, lazy, or cowardly acquiescence in 
a false appearance of excellence, and proceeds not from conscious- 
ness of our attainments, but insensibility of our wants. 

Nothing can be great which is not right. 

Nothing which reason condemns can be suitable to the dignity 
of the human mind. 

To be driven by external motives from the path which our own 
heart approves, to give way to anything but conviction, to suffer 
the opinion of others to rule our choice or overpower our resolves, 
is to submit tamely to the lowest and most ignominious slavery and 
to resign the right of directing our own lives. 

The utmost excellence at which humanity can arrive is a con- 
stant and determinate pursuit of virtue without regard to present 
dangers or advantages ; a continual reference of every action to the 
divine will ; a habitual appeal to everlasting justice ; and an unva- 
ried elevation of the intellectual eye to the reward which persever- 
ance can only obtain. But that pride which many, who presume 
to boast of generous sentiments, allow to regulate their measures, 
has nothing nobler in view than the approbation of men; of beings 
whose superiority we are under no obhgation to acknowledge, and 
who, when we have courted them with the utmost assiduity, can 
confer no valuable or permanent reward ; of beings who ignorantly 
judge of what they do not understand, or partially determine what 
they have never examined, and v/hose sentence is therefore of no 
weight, till it has received the ratification of our own conscience. 

He that can descend to bribe suffrages like these at the price of 
his innocence — he that can suffer the dehght of such acclamations 
to withhold his attention from the commands of the universal sov- 
ereign — has httle reason to congratulate himself upon the greatness 
of his mind; whenever he awakes to seriousness and reflection, he 
must become despicable in his own eyes, and shrink with shame 
from the remembrance of his cowardice and foUy. 

Of him that hopes to be forgiven, it is indispensably required 
that he forgive. It is therefore superfluous to urge any other mo- 



OLD AGE. 339 

fcive. On this great duty eternity is suspended; and to him that 
refuses to practice it, the throne of mercy is inaccessible, and the 
Saviour of the world has been horn in vain. 



Old Age. 

I cannot tell where childhood ends, and manhood begins; nor 
where manhood ends, and old age begins. It is a wavering and 
uncertain line, not straight and definite, which borders betwixt 
the two. But the outward characteristics of old age are obvious 
enough. The weight diminishes. Man is commonly heaviest at 
forty ; woman at fifty. After that, the body shrinlcs a little ; the 
height shortens as the cartilages become thin and dry. The hair 
whitens and falls away. The fi-ame stoops, the bones become 
smaller, feebler, have less animal and more mere earthy matter. 
The senses decay, slowly and handsomely. The eye is not so sharp, 
and while it penetrates further into space, it has less power clearly 
to define the outlines of what it sees. The ear is dull; the appetite 
less. Bodily heat is lower; the breath produces less carbonic acid 
than before. The old man consumes less food, water, air. The 
hands grasp less strongly; the feet less firmly tread. The lungs 
suck the breast of heaven with less powerful collapse. The eye and 
ear take not so strong a hold upon the world: — 

Aud the big manly voice; 
Turning again to cliildish treble, pipes 
And whistles in his sound. 

The animal life is making ready to go out. The very old man 
loves the sunshine and the fire, the arm chair and the shady nook. 
A rude wind would jostle the full-grown apple from its bough, full- 
ripe, full-colored, too. The internal characteristics correspond. 
General activity is less. Salient love of new things and of new 



340 LEISUEE HOURS 

persons, which bit the young man's heart, fades away. He thinks 
the old is better. He is not venturesome ; he keeps at home. Pas- 
sion once stung him into quickened life; now that gad-fly is no 
more buzzing in his ears. Madame de Stael finds compensation 
in Science for the decay of the passion that once fired her blood ; but 
Heathen Socrates, seventy years old, thanks the gods that he is now 
free from that "ravenous beast," which had disturbed his philo- 
sophic meditations for many a year. Eomance is the child of Pas- 
sion and Imagination ; — the sudden father that, the long protracting 
mother this. Old age has little romance. Only some rare man, 
like Wilhelm von Humboldt, keeps it still fresh in his bosom. 

In intellectual matters, the venerable man loves to recall the. 
old times, to revive his favorite old men, — no new ones half so 
fair. So in Homer, Nestor, who is the oldest of the Greeks, is 
always talking of the old times, before the grandfathers of men 
then living had come into being; " not such as hve in these degen- 
erate days." Verse-loving John Quincy Adams turns off from 
Byron and Shelley and Wieland and Goethe, and returns to Pope, 

Who pleased his childhood and informed his youth. 

The pleasure of hope is smaller; that of memory greater. It 
is exceedingly beautiful that it is so. The venerable man loves to 
set recollection to beat the roll-call, and summon up from the grave 
the old time, "the good old time," — the old places, old friends, 
old games, old talk; nay, to his ear the old familiar tunes are 
sweeter than anything that Mendelssohn, or Strauss, or Eossini 
can bring to pass. Elder Brewster expects to hear St. Martins and 
Old Hundred chanted in Heaven. Why not? To him Heaven 
comes in the long used musical tradition, not in the neologies of 
sound. ******* 

Then the scholar becomes an antiquary; he likes not young 
men unless he knew their grandfathers before. The young woman 
looks in the newspaper for the marriages, the old man, for the 
deaths. The young man's eye looks forward; the world is "all 
before him where to choose;" It is a hard world: he does not 



THE PROGRESS OE SIN. 341 

know it; he works a Kttle, and hopes much. The middle-aged 
man looks around at the present ; he has found out that it is a 
hard world; he hopes less and works more. The old man looks 
back on the field he has trod; " this is the tree I planted; this is 
my footstep," and he loves his old house, his old carriage, cat, dog, 
staff, and friend. In lands where the vine grows, I have seen an 
old man sit all day long, a sunny autumn day, before his cottage 
door, in a great arm-chair, his old dog crouched at his feet in the 
genial sun. The autumn wind played with the old man's venera- 
ble hairs; above him on the wall, purpling in the sunHght, hung 
the full cluster of the grape, ripening and maturing yet more. The 
two were just alike; the wind stirred the vine leaves and they fell; 
stirred the old man's hair and it whitened yet more. Both were 
waiting for the spirit in them to be fully ripe. The yoimg man 
looks forward; the old man looks back. How long the shadows 
lie in the setting smi, the steeple a mile long reaching across the 
plain, as the sun stretches out the hills in grotesque dimensions. 
So all the events of life in the old man's consciousness. 



The Progress of Sin. 

I have seen the httle purls of a spring sweat through the bot- 
tom of a bank, and intenerate the stubborn pavement till it hath 
made it fit for the impression of a child's foot; and it was despised, 
like the descending pearls of a misty morning, till it had opened its 
way and made a stream large enough to carry away the ruins of 
the undermined strand, and to invade the neighboring gardens; 
but then the despised drops had grown into an artificial river, and 
an intolerable mischief. So are the first entrances of sin, stopped 
with the antidotes of a hearty prayer, and checked into sohriety by 
the eye of a reverend man, or the coimsels of a single sermon; but 
when such beginnings are neglected, and our rehgion hath not in it 



342 LEISURE HOURS. 



SO much philosophy as to think anything evil as long as we can 
endure it, they grow up to ulcers and pestilential evils ; they destroy 
the soul hy their abode, who at their first entry might have been 
killed with the pressure of a little finger. He that hath passed 
many stages of a good life, to prevent his being tempted to a single 
sin, must be very careful that he never entertain his spirit with the 
remembrances of his past sin, nor amuse it with the fantastic appre- 
hensions of the present. When the Israehtes fancied the sapidness 
and rehsh of the flesh pots, they longed to taste and to return. 

So when a Libyan tiger, drawn from his wilder foragings, is 
shut up and taught to eat civil meat, and suffer the authority of a 
man, he sits down tamely in his prison and pays to his keeper fear 
and reverence for his meat; but if" he chance to come agairl and 
taste a draught of warm blood, he presently leaps into his natural 
cruelty. He scarce abstains from eating those hands that brought 
him disciphne and food. • • • • 

The Pannonian bears, when they have clasped a dart in the 
region of their hver, wheel themselves upon the wound, and with 
anger and mahcious revenge strike the deadly barb deeper, and 
cannot be quit from 'that fatal steel, but, in flying, bear along that 
which themselves make the instrument of a more hasty death ; so, 
in every vicious person struck with a deadly wound, and his own 
hands force it into the entertainments of the heart ; and because ii 
is painful to draw it forth by a sharp and salutary repentance, he 
still rolls and turns upon his wound, and carries his death in his 
bowels, where it first entered by choice, and then dwelt by love, and 
at last shall finish the tragedy by divine judgments and an unaL 
tfexable decree. 




THOUGHTS ON VARIOUS SUBJECTS. 343 



Tliouglits on Various Subjects. 

It is pleasant to observe how free the present age is in laying 
taxes on the next : ' ' Future ages shall talk of this ; this shall be famous 
to aU posterity; " whereas their time and thoughts will be taken up 
about present things, as ours are now. 

It is in disputes as in armies, where the weaker side setteth up 
false lights, and maketh a great noise, that the enemy may beheve 
them to be more numerous and strong than they really are. 

I have known some men possessed of good qualities, which 
were very serviceable to others, but useless to themselves; like a 
sun-dial on the front of a house, to inform the neighbors and pas- 
sengers, but not the owner within. 

If a man would register aU his opinions upon love, pohtics, 
rehgion, learning, etc., beginnmg from his youth, and so go on to 
old age, what a bundle of inconsistencies and contradictions would 
appear at last ! 

The stoical scheme of supplying our wants by lopping off our 
aesires, is like cutting off our feet when we want shoes. 

The reason why so few marriages are happy, is because young 
ladies spend their time in making nets, not in making cages. 

Censure is the tax a man payeth to the pubhc for being emi- 
nent. 

No wise man ever wished to be younger. 

An idle reason lessens the weight of the good ones you gave 
before. 

Complaint is the largest tribute Heaven receives, and the sin- 
cerest part of our devotion. 

The common fluency of speech in many men and most women 
is owing to a scarcity of matter and scarcity of words ; for who- 
ever is a master of language, and hath a mind full of ideas, will 
be apt, in speaking, to hesitate upon the choice of both; whereas 
common speakers have only one set of ideas, and one set of 



344 



LEISUEE HOURS. 



words to clothe them in, and these are always ready at the mouth. 
So people come faster out of a church when it is almost empty, 
than when a crowd is at the door. 

To be vain is rather a mark of humihty than pride. Vain 
men dehght in teUing what honors have been done them, what 
great company they have kept, and the hke ; by which they plainly 
confess that these honors were more than due, and such as their 
friends would not beheve if they had not been told; whereas a 
man truly proud thinks the greatest honors below his merit, and 
consequently scorns to boast. I therefore dehver it as a maxim, 
that whoever desires the character of a proud man ought to con- 
ceal his vanity. 

Every man desireth to live long, but no man would be old. 

If books and laws continue to increase as they have done for 
fifty years past, I am in some concern for future ages, how any 
man will be learned, or any man a lawyer. 

If a man maketh me keep my distance, the comfort is, he 
keepeth his at the same time. 

Very few men, properly speaking, live at present, but are pro- 
viding to live another time. 

Princes in their infancy, childhood, and youth, are said to dis- 
cover prodigious parts and wit, to speak things that sm-prise and 
astonish; strange, so many hopeful princes, so many shameful 
kings ! If they happened to die young, they would have been prod- 
igies of wisdom and virtue; if they Hve, they are often prodigies, 
indeed, but of another sort. 




EEBECCA'S DESCRIPTION OF THE SIEGE. 345 



Jbtebecca's Description of the Siege. 

In the "Passage of Arms" on the memorable field of Ashby- 
de-la-Zouche, Ivanhoe, known as the disinherited knight, was 
named by Prince John as the champion of the day. Although the 
head of a lance had penetrated his breastplate, and inflicted a 
wound, yet he bore up till he had been named Champion, and had 
received the Chaplet of Honor, fi'om the Queen of Love and Beauty. 
Ivanhoe was taken to the castle commanded by the Templar Bois- 
Guilbert and the Baron Front-de-Boeuf . While lodged within the 
castle, Ivanhoe's friends, under the leadership of the Black Knight, 
advanced to the rescue. The rest is fully explained in the text, in 
the conversation between Eebecca and Ivanhoe. But Ivanhoe was 
Hke the war-horse of that subhme passage, glowing with impatience 
at his inactivity, and with his ardent desire to mingle in the affi'ay 
of which these sounds were the introduction. "If I could but drag 
myself," he said, "to yonder window, that I might see how this 
brave game is like to go. If I had but bow to shoot a shaft, or 
battle-axe to strike, were it but a single blow for our dehverance ! 
It is in vain — ^it is in vain — I am ahke nerveless and weaponless." 
"Fret not thyself, noble knight," answered Eebecca, "the sounds 
have ceased of a sudden — it may be they join not battle." 

"Thou knowest nought of it," said Wilfred, imj)atiently ; "this 
dead pause only shows that the men are at their posts on the walls, 
and expecting la instant attack; what we have heard was but the dis- 
tant muttering of the storm — it will burst anon in aU its fury. 
Could I but reach yonder window!" "Thou wilt but injure thyself 
by the attempt, noble knight," rephed his attendant. Observing 
his extreme sohcitude, she firmly added, "I myself will stand at the 
lattice, and describe to you as I can what j)asses without." 

"You must not — you shaU not!" exclaimed Ivanhoe ; "each lat- 
tice, each aperture, will be soon a mark for the archers ; some ran- 
dom shaft — " "It shall be welcome!" muttered Eebecca, as with 



346 LEISURE HOURS. 



firm pace she ascended two or three steps which led to tlie window of 
which they spoke. "Eebecca, dear Eebecca!" exclaimed Ivanhoe, 
"this is no maiden's pastime — do not expose thyself to wounds and 
death, and render me forever miserable for having given thee occa- 
sion ; at least, cover thyself with yonder ancient buckler, and show 
as httle of your person at the lattice as may be." Following with 
wonderful promptitude the directions of Ivanhoe, and availing her- 
self of the protection of the large ancient shield, which she placed 
against the lower part of the window, Eebecca, with tolerable secu- 
rity to herself, could witness part of what was passing without the 
castle, and report to Ivanhoe the preparations which the assailants 
were making for the storm. Indeed, the situation which she thus 
obtained was peculiarly favorable for this purpose, because, being 
placed on an angle of the main building, Eebecca could not only 
see what passed beyond the precincts of the castle, but also com- 
manded a view of the out-work likely to be the first object of the 
meditated assault. It was an exterior fortification of no great 
height, or strength, intended to protect the postern-gate, through 
which Cediic had been recently dismissed by Front-de-Boeuf. The 
castle moat divided this species of barbican from the rest of the 
fortress, so that, in case of its being taken, it was easy to cut ofl 
the communication with the main building, by withdrawing the 
temporary bridge. In the out- work was a sally-port corresponding 
to the postern of the castle, and the whole was surrounded by a 
strong palisade. Eebecca could observe from the number of men 
placed for the defence of this post, that the besieged entertained 
apprehension for its safety; and from the mustering of the assail- 
ants in a direction nearly opposite to the out-work, it seemed no 
less j.^'ain that it had been selected as a vulnerable point of attack. 
These appearances she hastily communicated to Ivanhoe, and added, 
"The skirts of the wood seemed Lined with archers, although only a 
few are advanced from its dark shadow. " 

"Under what banner?" asked Ivanhoe. "Under no ensign of 
war which I can observe," answered Eebecca. 

"A singular novelty ," muttered the Knight, "to advance to storm 



REBECCA'S DESCRIPTION OF THE SIEGE. 347 

such a ca&tle without pennon or banner displayed! Seest thouwiio 
they be that act as leaders? "A knight, clad in sable armor, is 
the most conspicuous," said the Jewess; "he alone is armed from 
head to heel, and seems to assume the direction of all round him." 
"What device does he bear on his shield?" inquired Ivanhoe. 

"Something resembhng a bar of iron, and a padlock painted 
blue on the black shield." 

"A fetterlock and shackle-bolt azure,'- said Ivanhoe; "I know 
not who may bear the device, but well I ween it might now be mine 
own. Canst thou not see the motto?" 

"Scarce the device itself , at this distance," replied Rebecca; 
"but when the sun glances fair upon his shield, it shows as I tell 
you." 

"Seem there no other leaders?" exclaimed the anxious inquirer. 
"None of mark and distinction that I can behold from this. station," 
said Rebecca, "but, doubtless, the other side of the castle is also 
assailed. They appear even now preparing to advance, — God of 
Zion, protect us! — What a dreadful sight! — Those who advanced 
first bear huge shields, and defences made of j)lank; the others fol- 
low, bending their bows as they come on. They raise their bows! 
God of Moses, forgive the creatures thou hast made!" 

Her description was here suddenly interrupted by the signal 
for assault, which was given by the blast of a shrill bugle, and at 
once answered by a flourish of the Norman trumpets from the bat- 
tlements, which mingled with the deep and hoUow clang of the 
nakers (a species of kettle-drum,) retorted in notes of defiance 
the challenge of the enemy. The shouts of both parties augmented 
the fearful din, the assailants crying, "Saint George for merry Eng- 
land!" and the Normans answering them with loud cries of '''En- 
avaiit de Bracy ! — Beau seant ! — Front-de-Boeuf a la rescousse ! " B,c- 
cording to the war cries of their different commanders. 

It was not, however, by clamor that the contest was to be 
decided, and the desperate efforts of the assailants were met by an 
equally vigorous defence on the part of the besieged. The archers, 
trained by their woodland pastimes to the most effective use of the 



348 LEISURE HOURS. 



long-bow, shot, to use the appropriate phrase of the time, so "wholly 
together," that no point at which a defender could show the least 
part of his person escaped their cloth -yard shafts. By this heavy 
discharge, which continued as thick and shai-p as hail, while, not- 
withstanding, every arrow had its individual aim, and flew by 
scores together against each embrasure and opening in the parapets, 
as well as at every window where a defender either occasionally 
had post, or might be suspected to be stationed, — by this sustained 
discharge, two or three of the garrison were slain, and several oth- 
ers wounded. But, confident in their armor of proof, and in the 
cover which their situation afforded, the ■ followers of Front-de- 
Boeuf, and his aUies, showed an obstinacy in defence proportioned 
to the fury of the attack, and rephed with the discharge of their 
large cross-bows as well as with their long-bows, slings, and other 
missile weapons, to the close and continued shower of arrows; and, 
as the assailants were necessarily but indifferently protected,, did 
considerably more damage than they received at their hand. The 
whizzing of shafts and of missiles, on both sides, was only inter- 
rupted by the shouts which arose when either side inflicted or sus- 
tained some notable loss. 

"And I must lie here like a bed-ridden monk," exclaimed Ivan - 
hoe, "when the game that gives me freedom or death is played out 
by the hand of others ! — Look from the window once again, kind 
maiden, but beware that you are not marked by the archers beneath ! 
Look out once more, and tell me if they yet advance to the storm." 
With patient courage, strengthened by the interval which she had 
employed in mental devotion, Eebecca again took post at the lat- 
tice, sheltering herself, however, so as not be visible from beneath. 
"What dost thou see, Eebecca?" again demanded the wounded 
knight. 

"Nothing but the cloud of arrows flying so thick as to dazzle 
mine eyes, and to hide the bowmen who shoot them." 

"That cannot endure," said Ivanhoe; "if they press not right 
on to carry the castle by pure force of arms, the archery may avail 
but little against stone walls and bulwarks. Look for the knight 
of the fetterlock, fair Eebecca, and see how he bears himself; for 



REBECCAS DESCRIPTION OF THE SIEGE. 349 

as the leader is, so will his followers be." "I see him not," said 
Eebecca. 

"Foul craven!" exclaimed Ivanhoe; "does he blench from the 
helm when the wind blows highest?" 

"He blenches not! he blenches not!" said Eebecca, "I see him 
now; he leads a body of men close under the outer barrier of the 
barbican. They pull down the piles and pahsades ; they hew down 
the barriers with axes. His high black plume floats abroad over 
the throng, hke a raven over the field of the slain. They have 
made a breach in the barriers — they rush in — they are thrust back ! 
Front-de-Boeuf heads the defenders, I see his gigantic form above 
the press. They throng again to the breach, and the pass is dis- 
puted hand to hand and man to man. God of Jacob! it is the 
meeting of two fierce tides — the conflict of two oceans moved by 
adverse winds ! " She turned her head from the lattice, as if unable 
longer to endure a sight so terrible. 

"Look forth again, Eebecca," said Ivanhoe, mistaking the 
cause of her retiring; "the archery must in some degree have 
ceased, since they are now fighting hand to hand. Look again, 
there is now less danger. " 

Eebecca again looked forth, and almost immediately exclaimed, 
"Holy prophets of the law! Front-de-Boeuf and the Black Knight 
fight hand to hand on the breach, amid the roar of their followers 
who watch the progress of the strife — Heaven strike with the cause 
of the oppressed and of the captive!" She then uttered a loud 
shriek, and exclaimed, "He is down! he is down!" 

"Who is down?" cried Ivanhoe; "for our dear Lady's sake, teU 
me which has fallen?" 

"The Black Knight," answered Eebecca, faintly; then instantly 
again shouted with joyful eagerness, "But no — but no! — the 
name of the Lord of Hosts be blessed! — he is on foot again, and 
fights as if there were twenty men's strength in his single arm. 
His sword is broken — he snatches an ax from a yeoman — he 
presses Front-de-Boeuf with blow on blow. The giant stoops and 
totters like an oak under the steel of the woodman. He falls — he 
faUs!" 



350 LEISURE HOURS. 

"Front-de-Boeuf ?" exclaimed Ivahhoe. 

"Front-de-Boeuf !" answered the Jewess; "his men rush to the 
rescue, headed by the haughty Templar — their united force com- 
pels the champion to pause. They drag Front-de-Boeuf within 
the walls." 

"The assailants have won the barriers, have they not?" said 
Ivanhoe. 

"They have — they have!" exclaimed Eebecca — "and they press 
the besieged hard upon the outer waU; some plant ladders, some 
swarm like heps, and endeavor to ascend upon the shoulders of 
each other — down go stones, beams, and trunks of trees upon their 
heads, and as fast as they bear the wounded to the rear, fresh men 
supply their places in the assault. Great God ! hast thou given 
men thine own image, that it should be thus cruelly defaced by the 
hands of their brethren ! " 

"Think not of that," said Ivanhoe; "this is no time for such 
thoughts. — Who yield? who push their way?" 

"The ladders are thrown down," replied Eebecca, shuddering; 
"the soldiers lie groveling under them like crushed reptiles. The 
besieged have the better. " 

"Saint George strike for us!" exclaimed the Knight; "do the 
false yeomen give way?" 

"No!" exclaimed Eebecca, "they bear themselves right yeoman- 
ly — the Black Knight approaches the postern with his huge ax — 
the thundering blows which he deals, you may hear them above all 
the din and shouts of the battle. Stones and beams are hailed 
down on the bold champion — he regards them no more than if they 
were thistledown or feathers ! " 

"By Saint John of Acre," said Ivanhoe, raising himself joy- 
fully on his couch, "methought there was but one man in England 
that might do such a deed." 

"The postern gate shakes," continued Eebecca ; "it crashes — ^it 
is splintered by his blows — they rush in— the out-work is won. 
Oh, God! — they hurl the defenders from the battlements — they 
throw them into the moat, men, if ye be indeed men, spare 
them that can resist no longer!" 



REBECCAS DESCRIPTION OF THE SIEGE, 351 

"The bridge — the bridge which communicates with the castle — 
have they won that pass?" exclaimed Ivanhoe. 

"No," replied Eebecca, "the Templar has destroyed the plank 
on which they crossed — few of the defenders escaped witli him into 
the castle — the shrieks and cries which you hear, tell the fate of the 
others. Alas ! I see it is still more difficult to look upon victory 
than upon battle. " 

"Wiiat do they now, maiden?" said Ivanhoe; "look forth yet 
again — this is no time to faint at bloodshed." "It is over for the 
time," said Eebecca; "our friends strengthen themselves within the 
out- work which they have mastered, and it affords them so good a 
shelter from the foemen's shot, that the garrison only bestow a few 
bolts on it from interval to interval, as if rather to disquiet than 
effectually to injure them." 

"Our friends," said Wilfred, "wiU surely not abandon an enter- 
prise so gloriously begun and so happily attained. Oh, no! I will 
put my faith in the good knight whose ax hath rent heart of 
oak and bars of iron, — singular," he again muttered to himself, 
' if there be two who can do a deed of such derrin;/ — do! — a fetter- 
lock, and a shackle-bolt on a field sable — what may that meau-- 
seest thou nought else, Eebecca, by which the Black Knight may be 
distinguished?" 

"Nothing," said the Jewess; "aU about liim is black as the 
wing of the night raven. Nothing can I spy that can mark him 
further; but having once seen him put forth his strength in battle, 
methinks I could know him again among a thousand warriors. He 
rushes to the fray as if he were summoned to a banquet. There 
is more than mere strength — there seems as if the whole soul and 
spirit of the champion were given to every blow which he deals 
upon his enemies. God assoilzie him of the sin of blood-shed ! — 
it is fearful, yet magnificent, to behold how the arm and heart of 
one man can triumph over hundreds." 

"Eebecca," said Ivanhoe, "thou hast paiuted a hero; surely 
they rest but to refresh their force, or to provide the means of 
crossing the moat. Under such a leader as thou hast spoken this. 



352 LEISUEE HOUKS. 



knight to be, there are no craven fears, no cold-blooded delays, no 
yielding up a gaUant emprize ; since the difficulties which render it 
arduous render it also glorious. I swear by the honor of my house 
— I vow by the name of my bright lady-love, I would endure ten 
years captivity to fight one day by that good knight's side in such a 
quarrel as this!" 

"Alas!" said Eebecca, leaving her station at the window, and 
approaching the couch of the wounded knight, "this impatient 
yearning after action — this struggling with and repining at your 
present weakness, will not fail to injure your returning health. 
How couldst thou hope to inflict wounds on others, ere that be 
healed which thyself hast received?" 

"Eebecca," he replied, "thou knowest not how impossible it is 
for one trained to actions of chivalry, to remain passive as a priest, 
or a woman, when they are acting deeds of honor around him. 
The love of battle is the food upon which we hve — the dust of the 
mellay is the breath of our nostrils ! We hve not — we wish not to 
hve, longer than while we are victorious and renowned. Such, 
maiden, are the laws of chivalry to which we are sworn and to 
which we offer all that we hold dear. " 

"Alas!" said the fair Jewess, "and what is it, vaUant knight, 
save an offering of sacrifice to a demon of vain glory, and a pass- 
ing through the fire to Moloch ? What remains to you as the prize 
of aU the blood you have spilled — of aU the travel and pain you 
have endured — of all the tears which your deeds have caused, when 
death hath broken the strong man's spear and overtaken the speed 
of his war-horse?" 

"What remains?" cried Ivanhoe. "Glory, maiden, glory! which 
gilds our sepulchre and embalms oiir name." 

"Glory?" continued Eebecca; "alas! is the rusted mail which 
hangs as a hatchment over the champion's dim and moldering 
tomb — ^is the defaced sculpture of the inscription which the ignor- 
ant monk can hardly read to the inquiring pilgrim — are these suf- 
ficient rewards for the sacrifice of every kindly affection, for a life 
spent miserably that ye may make others miserable ? Or is there. 



THE CLOUD. 



353 



such virtue in the rude rhymes of a wandering bard, that domestic 
love, kindly affection, peace and happiness, are so widely bartered, 
to become the hero of those bahads which vagabond minstrels sing 
to drunken churls over their evening ale?" 



TJie Cloud. 



A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun, 

A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow, 
Long had I watched the glory moving on, 

O'er the still radiance of the lake below ; 
Tranquil its spirit seemed, and floated slow, 

E'en in its very motion there was rest, 
While every breath of eve that chanced to blow, 

Wafted the traveler to the beauteous west. 
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul. 

To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given, 
And by the breath of mercy made to roll 

Eight onward to the golden gates of heaven. 
While to the eye of faith it peaceful lies, 

And tells to man lijs glorious destinies. 






''^«55=S*''^ 



354 LEISURE HOURS. 



Tlie Blind Preacher. 

I have been, my dear S , on an excursion through the 

counties which He along the eastern side of the Blue Eidge. A 
general description of that country and its inhabitants may form 
the subject of a future letter. For the present, I must entertain 
you with an account of a most singular and interesting adventure, 
which I met with, in the course of the toux. 

It was one Sunday, as I traveled through the county of 
Orange, that my eye was caught by a cluster of horses tied near a 
ruinous, old, wooden house, in the forest, not far from the roadside. 
Having frequently seen such objects before, in travehng through 
these states, I had no difficulty in understanding that this was a 
place of rehgious worship. 

Devotion alone should have stopped me, to join in the duties 
of the congregation ; but I must confess that curiosity to hear the 
preacher of such a wilderness was not the least of my motives. 
On entering, I was struck with his preternatural appearance. He 
was a tall and very spare old man ; his head, which was covered 
with a white linen cap, his shriveled hands, and his voice, were all 
shaking under the influence of a palsy; and a few moments ascer- 
tained to me that he was perfectly blind. 

The first emotions which touched my breast, were those of 
mingled pity and veneration. But ah! sacred God! how soon 
were all my feeUngs changed ! The Hps of Plato were never more 
worthy of a prognostic swarm of bees, than were the lips of this 
holy man ! It was a day of the administration of the sacrament ; 
and his subject, of course, was the passion of our Saviour. I had 
heard the subject handled a thousand times ; I had thought it 
exhaiisted long ago. Little did I suppose that in the wild woods 
of America I was to meet with a man whose eloquence would give 
the topic a new and more sublime pathos than I had ever before 
witnessed. 



THE BLIND PREACHER. 355 



As he descended from the pulpit, to distribute the mystic sym- 
bols, there was a pecuhar, a more than human solemnity in his air 
and manner which made my blood run cold and my whole fram.e 
shiver. 

He then drew a picture of the sufferings of our Saviour; his 
trial before Pilate; his ascent up Calvary; his crucifixion, and his 
death. I knew the whole history; but never, until then, had I 
heard the circumstances so selected, so arranged, so colored! It 
was all new, and I seemed to have heard it for the first time in 
my life. His enunciation was so deUberate, that his voice trembled 
on every syllable; and every heart in the assembly trembled in 
unison. His pecuhar phrases had that force of description that 
the original scene appeared to be, at that moment, acting before 
our eyes. We saw the very faces of the Jews: the staring, fright- 
ful distortions of mahce and rage. We saw the buffet; my soul 
kindled with a flame of indignation ; and my hands were involun- 
tarily and convulsively clinched. 

But when he came to touch on the patience, the forgiving 
meekness of our Saviour; when he drew, to the life, his blessed 
eyes streaming in tears to Heaven ; his voice breathing to God, a 
soft and gentle prayer of pardon on his enemies. — "Father, forgive 
them, for they know not what they do" — the voice of the preacher, 
which had all along faltered, grew fainter and fainter, until his 
utterance being entirely obstructed by the force of his feelings; he 
raised his handkerchief to his eyes, and burst into a loud and irre- 
pressible flood of grief. The effect is inconceivable. The whole 
house resounded with the mingled groans, and sobs, and shrieks of 
the congregation. 

It was some time before the tumult had subsided, so far as to 
permit him to proceed. Indeed, judging by the usual but fallacious 
standard of my own weakness, I began to be very uneasy for the 
situation of the preacher. For I could not conceive how he would 
be able to let his audience down from the height to which he had 
wound them without impairing the solemnity and dignity of his 
subject, or perhaps shocking them by the abruptness of the faU. 



356 LEISURE HOURS. 



But — no ; the descent was as beautiful and subKme as the elevation 
had been rapid and enthusiastic. 

The first sentence which broke the awful silence, was a quota- 
tion from Eousseau, "Socrates died hke a philosopher, but Jesus 
Chirst, like a God!" 

I despair of giving you any idea of the effect produced by this 
short sentence, unless you could perfectly conceive the whole man- 
ner of the man, as well as the pecuhar crisis in the discourse. 
Never before did I completely understand what Demosthenes meant 
by laying such stress on delivery. You are to bring before you the 
venerable figure of the preacher; his blindness, constantly recall- 
ing to your recollection old Homer, Ossian, and Milton, and asso- 
ciating with his performance the melancholy grandeur of their 
geniuses; you are to imagine you hear his slow, solemn, well 
accented enunciation, and his voice of affecting, trembhng melody; 
you are to remember the pitch of passion and enthusiasm to which 
the congregation were raised; and then, the few minutes of por- 
tentous, death-like silence which reigned throughout the house ; the 
preacher removing his white handkerchief from his aged face (even 
yet wet from the recent torrent of his tears), and slowly stretching 
forth the palsied hand which holds it, begins the sentence, "So- 
crates died hke a philosopher" — then pausing, raising his other 
hand, pressing them both clasped together, with warmth and 
energy to his breast, hfting his "sightless balls" to heaven, and 
pouring his whole soul into his tremulous voice — "but Jesus Christ 
— Hke a God!" If he had been indeed and in truth an angel of 
light, the effect could scarcely have been more divine. 

Whatever I had been able to conceive of the sublimity of 
Massillon, or the force of Bourdalone, had fallen far short of the 
power which I felt from the dehvery of this simple sentence. The 
blood, which just before had rushed in a hurricane upon my brain, 
and, in the violence and agony of my feehngs had held my whole 
system in suspense, now ran back into my heart, with a sensation 
which I cannot describe — a kind of shuddering, dehcious horror! 
The paroxysm of blended pity and indignation, to which I had beeii 



THE BLIND PREACHER. 357 

traasported, subsided into the deepest self-abasement, humility and 
adoration. I had just been lacerated and dissolved by. sympathy 
for our Saviour as a fellow creature ; but now, with fear and trem- 
bhng, I adored him as — "a God!" 

If this description gives you the impression that this incom- 
parable minister had anything of shallow, theatrical trick in his 
manner, it does him great injustice. I have never seen in any 
other orator, such a union of simplicity and majesty. He has not 
a gesture, an attitude or an accent, to which he does not seem 
forced, by the sentiment which he is expressing. His mind is too 
serious, too earnest, too sohcitous, and, at the same time too dignified, 
to stoop to artifice. Although as far removed from ostentation as a 
man can be, yet it is clear from the train, the style and substance of 
his thoughts, that he is not only a very polite scholar, but a man 
of extensive and profound erudition. I was forcibly struck with a 
short, yet beautiful character which he drew of our learned and 
amiable countryman. Sir Eobert Boyle; he spoke of him, as if 
"his noble mind had, even before death, divested herself of all in- 
fluence from his frail tabernacle of flesh;" and called him in his 
peculiarly emphatic and impressive manner, "a pure intelligence; 
the hnk between men and angels." 

This man has been before my imagination almost ever since. 
A thousand times, as I rode along, I dropped the reins of my bri- 
dle, stretched forth my hand, and tried to imitate his quotation 
from Eousseau; a thousand times I abandoned the attempt in 
despair, and felt persuaded that his peculiar manner and power 
arose from an energy of soul, which nature could give, but which 
no human being could justly copy. In short, he seems to be alto- 
gether a being of a former age, or of a totally different nature from 
the rest of men. As I recall, at this moment, several of his 
awfully striking attitudes, the chilhng tide with which my blood 
begins to pour along my arteries reminds me of the emotions pro- 
duced by the first sight of Gray's introductory picture of his bard : 

"On a rock, whose haughty brow 
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaminc: flood, 



358 LEISUKE HOURS. 



Robed in the sable garb of woe, 

With haggard eyes the poet stood ; 

(Loose his beard and hoary hair 

Streamed, like a meteor, to the troubled air) ; 

And with a poet's hand and a i^rophet's fire, 

Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre." 

Gruess my surprise, when, on my arrival at EichmotAl, and 
mentioning the name of this man, I found not one person wlio had 
ever before heard of James Waddell! Is it not strange, that such a 
genius as this, so accompUshed a scholar, so divine an orr^tor, 
should be permitted to languish and die in obscurity, withit' eighty 
miles of the metropohs of Virginia? 



Order in Nature. 

How marvelous is this order ! The stones and soil beneath our 
feet, and the ponderous mountains, are not mere confused masses 
of matter; they are pervaded through their innermost constitution 
by the harmony of numbers. The elements of the wood we burn 
are associated in fixed mathematical ratios. In the violence of com- 
bustion, the bond that held them together is destroyed; they break 
away and rush into new combinations, but they cannot escape the 
law of numerical destiny. The burning candle gradually wastes 
away before us, dissolves in air, and passes beyond the reach of 
sight; but in that invisible region, forces are playing among its un- 
seen particles with the same exactitude and harmony as among 
those which rule the constellations. And so is it with all chemical 
mutations. In the gradual growth of hving structures, in the diges- 
tion of food, and in the slow decay of organic matter, no less than 
in its quick combustion, the transposition of elements takes place 
in rigorous accordance with the law of quantitative proportion. 



ENGLISH LANGUAGE. 359 



Englisli Language. 

The language wliich, at the very beginning of its full organ- 
ization, could produce the linked sweetness of Sidney and the 
"mighty hne" of Marlowe, the voluptuous beauty of Spenser and 
the oceanic melody of Shakespere, and which, at a riper age, could 
show itself an adequate instrument for the organ-like harmonies 
of Milton and the matchless symphonies of Sir Thomas Browne; 
which could give full and fit expression to the fieiy energy of Dryden 
and the epigrammatic point of Pope, to the forest-like gloom of Young 
and the passionate outpourings of Burns ; Avhich sustained and siTp- 
ported the tremulous elegance and husbanded strength of Campbell, 
the broad-winged sweep of Coleridge, the deep sentiment and all- 
embracing humanities of Wordsworth and the gorgeous emblazonry 
of Moore; and which to-day, in the j^lenitude of its powers, responds 
to every call of Tennyson, Euskin, Newman, and Froude, — is 
surely equal to the demands of any genius that may yet arise to tax 
its powers. Spoken in the time of Elizabeth by a million fewer 
persons than to-day speak it in London alone, it now girdles the 
earth with its electric chain of commmaication, and voices the 
thoughts of a hundred million of souls. It has crossed the peaks 
of the Eocky Mountains, and has invaded South America and the 
Sandwich Islands; it is advancing with giant strides through Africa 
and New Zealand, and on the scorching plains of India; it is pen- 
etrating the wild waste of Australia, making inroads upon China 
and Japan, and bids fair to become the dominant language of the 
civilized world. Let us jealously guard its purity, maintain its 
ancient idioms, and develop its inexhaustible resources, that it may 
be even more worthy than it now is to be the mother tongue, not 
only of the two great brother nations whose precious legacy it is, 
but of the whole family of man. 



360 LEISURE HOURS. 



Mother's Vacant Chair . 

I go a little farther on in your honse, and I find the mother's 
chair. It is very apt to he a rocking chair. She had so many cares 
and troubles to soothe, that it must have rockers. I remember it 
well. It was an old chair, and the rockers were almost worn out, 
for I was the youngest, and the chair had rocked the whole family. 
It made a creaking noise as it moved, but there was music in the 
sound. It was just high enough to allow us children to put our 
heads into her lap. That was the bank where we deposited aU our 
hurts and worries. Oh, what a chair that was! It was different 
from the father's chair — it was entirely different. Perhaps there was 
about this chair more gentleness, more tenderness, more grief when 
we had done wrong. When we were wayward, father scolded, but 
mother cried. It was a very wakeful chair. In the sick days of chil- 
dren other chairs could not keep awake ; that chair always kept awake 
— kept easily awake. That chair knew aU the old lullabies, and all 
those wordless songs which mothers sing to their sick children — 
songs in which all pity and compassion and sympathetic influences are 
combined. That old chair has stopped rocking for a good many 
years. It may be set up in the loft or the garret, but it holds a queenly 
power yet. Wlaen at midnight you went into that grog-shop to get the 
intoxicating draught, did you not hear a voice that said, "My son, 
why go in there?" and louder than the boisterous encore of the 
theater, a voice saying, "My son, what do you here?" And when 
you went into the house of sin, a voice saying, "What would your 
mother do if she knew you were here ?" and you were provoked at 
yourself, and you charged yourself with superstition and fanaticism, 
and your head got hot with your own thoughts, and you went home, 
and you went to bed, and no sooner had you touched the bed than 
a voice said, "What, a prayerless pillow !" Man ! what is the matter? 
This! You are too near your mother's rocking-chair! "Oh, pshaw!" 
you say, "there's nothing in that. I'm five hundred miles off from 
where I was born — I'm three thousand miles off from the Scotch kirk 



WOEK. 361 

whose bell was the first music I ever heard." I cannot help that; 
you are too near your mother's rocking-chair. "Oh!" you say, 
"there can't be anything in that; that chair has been vacant a great 
while." I cannot help that. It is all the mightier for that; it is 
omnipotent, that vacant mother's chair. It whispers. It speaks. 
It weeps. It carols. It mourns. It prays. It warns. It thunders. 
A young man went off and broke his mother's heart, and while he 
was away from home his mother died, and the telegraph brought the 
son, and he came into the room where she lay, and looked upon her 
face, and cried out, "0, mother, mother! what your life could not 
do your death shall effect. This moment I give my heart to God." 
And he kept his promise. Another victory for the vacant chair. 
"With reference to your mother, the words of my text were fulfilled; 
"Thou shalt be missed because thy seat will be empty." 



"Work, 

There is a perennial nobleness, and even sacredness, in work. 
Were he never so benighted, forgetful of his high calling, there is 
always hope in a man that actually and earnestly works; in idle- 
ness alone is there pei-petual despair. Work, never so mammon- 
ish, mean, is in communication with nature; the real desire to get 
work done will itself lead one more and more to truth, to Nature's 
appointments and regulations, which are truth. 

The latest gospel in this world is: "Know thy work, and do it." 
"Know thyself:" long enough has that j)Oor "self" of thine tor- 
mented thee; thou wilt never get to "know" it, I beheve! Think 
it not thy business, this of knowing thyself, thou art an unknow- 
able individual ; know what thou canst work at, and work at it hke 
a Hercules ! That will be thy better plan. 

It has been written "an endless significance hes in work," as 
man perfects himself by writing. Foul jungles are cleared away, 



362 ■ LEISUEE HOURS 



fair seed-fields rise instead, and stately cities ; and withal the ma.n 
himself first ceases to be a jungle and foul, unwholesome desert 
thereby. Consider how, even in the meanest sorts of labor, the 
whole soul of a man is composed into a kind of real harmony the 
instant he sets himself to work! Doubt, desire, sorrow, remorse, 
indignation, despair itself, all these, like hell-dogs, he beleaguering 
the soul of the poor day- worker, as of every man, but as he bends 
himself with free valor against his task, all these are stilled, all 
these shrink murmuring afar off into their caves. The man is now 
a man. The blessed glow of labor in him, is it not a purifying fire, 
wherein all poison is burnt up, and of sour smoke itself there is 
made bright, blessed flame? 

Destiny, on the whole, has no other way of cultivating us. 
A formless chaos, once set it revolving, grows round and ever 
rounder; ranges itself, by mere force of gravity, into strata, spher- 
ical courses; is no longer a chaos, but a round, compacted world. 
What would become of the earth did she cease to revolve ? 
In the poor old earth, so long as she revol'ves, all inequalities, 
irregularities, disperse themselves; all irregularities are incessantly 
becoming regular. Hast thou looked on the potter's wheel, one of 
the venerablest objects; old as the prophet Ezekiel, and far older? 
Eude lumps of clay, how they spin themselves up, by mere quick 
whirhng, into beautiful circular dishes. And fancy the most assidu- 
ous potter, but without his wheel, reduced to make dishes, or 
rather amorphous botches, by mere kneading and baking! Even 
such a potter were destiny with a human soul that would rest and 
he at ease, that would network and spin! Of an idle, unrevolving 
man, the kindest destiny, like the most assiduous potter without 
wheel, can bake and knead nothing other than a botch; let her 
spend on him what expensive coloring, what gilding and enameling 
she will, he is but a botch. Not a dish; no, a bulging, kneaded, 
crooked, shambling,, squint-cornered, amorphous botch, a mere 
enameled vessel of dishonor! Let the idle think of this. 

Blessed is he who has found his work; let him ask no other 
blessedness. He has a work, a hfe-piirpose ; he has found it and 



WORK. 363 

will follow it ! How, as the free-flowing channel, dug and torn by 
noble force through the sour mud- swamp of one's existence, hke an 
ever- deepening river there, it runs and flows, draining off the sour, 
festering water gradually from the root of the remotest grass blade, 
making, instead of pestilential swamp, a green, fiaiitful meadow 
with its clear, flowing stream. How blessed for the meadow itself, 
let the stream and its value be great or small ! 

Labor is hfe ! From the inmost heart of the worker rises his 
God-given force, the sacred, celestial life-essence breathed into him 
by Almighty God ; from his inmost heart awakens him to all noble- 
ness, to all knowledge, "seh-knowledge" and much else, so soon as 
work fitly begins. Knowledge! the knowledge that \riR hold good 
in working, cleave thou to that, for nature herself accredits that, 
says Yea to that. Properly thou hast no other knowledge but what 
thou hast got by working, — the rest is yet all an hypothesis of 
knowledge, a thing to be argued of in schools, a thing floating in 
the clouds, in endless logic vortices, till we try it and fix it. 
"Doubt, of whatever kind, can be ended by action alone." 

And again, hast thou valued patience, courage, perseverance, 
openness to hght, readiness to own thyself mistaken, to do better 
next time? All these, aU virtues in wrestling with the dim brute 
powers of fact, in ordering of thy fellows in such wrestle, there, 
and elsewhere not at all, thou wilt continually learn. Set down a 
brave Sir Christopher in the middle of black, ruined stone-heaps 
of foohsh unarchitectural bishops, red-tape officials, idle Nell Gwyn 
defenders of the faith, and see whether he will ever raise a Paul's 
Cathedral out of all that, yea or no! Eough, rude, contradictory 
are aU things and persons, from the mutinous masons and Irish 
hod-men, up to the idle NeU Gwyn defenders, to blustering red-tape 
officials, foohsh unarchitectural bishops. AU these things and per- 
sons are there, not for Christopher's sake and his cathedrals; they 
are there for their own sake, mainly ! Christopher will have to 
conquer and constrain aU these, if he be able. All these are against 
him. 

Equitable nature herself, who carries her mathematics and 



364 



LEISUEE HOURS 



architectonics not on the face of her, but deep in the hidden heart 
of her— nature herself is but partially for him, — will be wholly 
against him, if he constrain her not! His very money, where is 
it to come from? The pious munificence of England Hes far scat- 
tered, distant, unable to speak and say, "I am here;" must be 
spoken to before it can speak. Pious munificence, and all help, is 
so silent, invisible hke the gods ; impediment, contradictions mani- 
fold are so loud and near ! brave Sir Christopher, trust thou in 
those notwithstanding, and front all these; understand all these; 
by vahant patience, noble effort, insight, vanquish and compel all 
these, and, on the whole, strike down victoriously the last top-stone 
of that Paul's edifice, thy monument for certain centviries, the 
stamp "Great Man" impressed very legibly in Portland stone 
there ! 

Yes, all manner of work, and pioiis response from men or 
nature, is always what we call silent, — cannot speak or come to 
hght tiU it be seen, till it be spoken to. Every noble work is at 
first "impossible." In very truth, for every noble work the possi- 
bilities will he diffused through immensity, inarticulate, undiscover- 
able except to faith. Like Gideon, thou shalt spread out thy fleece 
at the door of thy tent ; see whether under the wide arch of heaven 
there be any bounteous moisture, or none. Thy heart and life- 
purpose shall be a miraculous Gideon's fleece spread out in silent 
appeal to heaven ; and from the land immensities, what from the 
poor unkind locahties and town and country parishes there never 
could, blessed dew-moisture to suffice thee shall have fallen ! 

"Work is of a rehgious nature : work is of a brave nature, which 
it is the aim of all religion to be. "AH work of man's is as the 
swimmer's," a waste ocean threatens to devour him; if he front it 
not bravely it will keep its word. By incessant, wise defiance of 
it, lusty rebuke and buffet of it, behold how it loyally supports him, 
bears him as its conqueror along. "It is so," says Goethe, "with 
aU things that man undertakes in this world." 

Brave sea-captain, Norse sea-king, Columbus, my hero, royaflst 
sea-king of all! it is no friendly environment this of thine in the 



WORK. 365 

waste deep waters ; around thee mutinous, discouraged souls, behind 
thee disgrace and ruin, before thee unpenetrated veil of night. 
Brother, these wild water-mountains, bounding from their deep 
bases — ten miles deep, I am told, — are not entirely there on thy 
behalf! Meseems they have other work than floating thee forward; 
and the huge winds that sweep from Ursa Major of the tropics and 
equator, dancing their giant waltz through the kingdoms of chaos 
and immensity, they care httle about filling rightly or fiUing 
wrongly the small shoulder-of-mutton sails in this cockle skiff of 
thine! Thou art not among articulate speaking friends, my 
brother; thou art among immeasurable dumb monsters, tumbling, 
howhng wide as the world here. Secret, far-off, invisible to ah 
hearts but thine, there Hes a help in them. See how thou wilt get 
at that. Patiently thou wilt wait until the mad southwester spend 
itself, saving thyself by dexterous science of defence the while; 
vahantly, with swift decision, \vilt thou strike in when the favoring 
east, the possible, springs up. Mutiny of men thou wilt sternly 
repress ; weakness, despondency, thou wilt cheerily encourage ; thou 
wilt swallow down complaint, unreason, weariness, weakness of 
others and thyself — how much wilt thou swaUow down! There 
shall be a dej)th of silence in thee deeper than this sea which is 
but ten miles deep; a silence unsoimdable, knoAvn to God only. 
Thou shalt be a great man. Yes, my world-soldier, thou of the 
world marine -service, thou wilt have to be (jreater than this tumidt- 
uous, unmeasured world here around thee is; thou in thy strong 
soul, as with wrestler's arms, shalt embrace it, harness it down, 
and make it bear thee on to new Americas, or whither God wills ! 
****■ ****** 

Eehgion, I said, for, properly speaking, ah. true work is rehgion ; 
and whatsoever rehgion is not work may go and dwell among the 
Brahmins, Antinomians, spinning dervishes, or where it will; with 
me it shall have no harbor. Admirable was that of the old monks • 
Laborare est orare, "work is worship." 

Older than all preached gospels was this unpreached, inarticu- 
late, but ineradicable, forever- en during gospel: Work, and therein 



^66 LiEISURB HOUES. 



have well-being. Man, son of earth and of heaven, hes there not, in 
the innermost heart of thee, a spirit of active method, a force for 
work;: — and burn hke a painfully smoldering fire, giving thee no 
rest till thou unfold it, till thou write it down m beneficent facts 
around thee! What is immethodic, waste, thou shalt make 
methodic, regulated, arable; obedient and productive to thee. 
Wheresoever thou findest disorder, there is thy eternal enemy; 
attack him swiftly, subdue him; make order of him, the subject, 
not of chaos, but of inteUigence, divinity and thee! The thistle 
that grows in thy path, dig it out that a blade of useful grass, a 
drop of nourishing milk may grow there instead. The waste 
cotton-shrub, gather its waste white down, spin it, weave it, that in 
place of idle htter there may be folded webs, and the naked skin of 
man be covered. 

But above all, where thou findest ignorance, stupidity, brute- 
mindedness, attack it, I say; smite it wisely, unweariedly, and 
rest not while thou livest and it hves, but smite, smite in the name 
of God! The Highest God, as I understand it, does audibly so 
command thee — still audibly, if thou have ears to hear. He, even 
He, with His unspoken voice, fuller than any Sinai thunders or 
syllabled speech of whirlwinds — for the silence of deep eternities, of 
worlds from beyond the morning-stars, does it not speak to thee? 
The unborn ages ; the old graves, with their long-moldering dust, 
the very tears that wetted it, now all dry — do not these speak to 
thee what ear hath not heard? The deep death — kingdoms, the 
stars in their never-resting courses, all space and all time pro- 
claim it to thee in continual silent admonition. Thou, too, if ever 
man should, shalt work while it is called to-day. For the night 
Cometh wherein no man can work. 

All true work is sacred. In all true work, were it but true 
hand-labor, there is something of divineness. Labor, wide as the 
earth, has its summit in heaven. Sweat of the brow; and up from 
that to sweat of the brain, sweat of the heart — which includes all 
Kepler calculations, Newton meditations, all sciences, all spoken 
epics, all acted heroisms, martyrdoms, — up to that "agony of 



WORK. 



367 



bloody sweat" which all men have called divine! brother, if 
this is not "worship," then I say, the more pity for worship; for 
this is the noblest thing yet discovered under God's sky. Who 
art thou that complainest of thy hfe of toil? Complain not. Look 
up, my wearied brother; see thy feUow- workmen there in God's 
eternity; surviving there, they alone surviving; sacred baud of the 
immortals, celestial body-guard of the empire of mankind. Even 
in the weak human memory they survive so long, as saints, as 
heroes, as gods; they alone surviving; peophng, they alone, the 
unmeasured solitudes of time! To thee heaven, though severe, 
is 7iot unkind. Heaven is kind as a noble mother, as that Spartan 
mother, saying while she gave her son his shield, "With it, my 
son, or upon it!" Thou, too, shalt return home in honor, to thy 
far-distant home in honor, doubt it not, if in the battle thou keep 
thy shield! Thou, in the eternities and deepest death kingdoms, 
art not an ahen ; thou everywhere art a denizen ! Complain not ; 
the very Spartans did not complain. 




368 LEISUEE HOURS 



"The Head of The River." 

'■A rushy island guards the sacred bower 

And hides it from the meadow, where in peace 
The lazy cows wrench many a scented flower, 
Bobbing the golden market of the bees ; 
And laden barges float 
By banks of myosote ; 
And scented flag and golden fleur-de-lis 
Delay the loitering boat. 

"And on this side the island, where the pool 

Eddies away, are tangled mass on mass 
The water- weeds that net the fishes cool, 
And scarce allow a narrow stream to pass; . 
Where spreading crowfoot mars 
The drowning nenuphars. 
Waving the tassels of her silken grass 
Below her silver stars." 



DOG DAYS. 371 



Dog-Days. 

Doubtless they have their uses, but they are uot agreeable. 
That must be conceded. There is uo out-doors. You wake in the 
morning with a mild sense of strangulation, though all your win- 
dows are open at top and bottom. You thrust your head out into 
the morning air, but there isn't any. It has aU run to fog. Fog 
Has heavy and gray on the grass. Trees and hills and fences are 
smothered in fog. It creeps into your house, tarnishes aU your 
gilt, swells your drawers and doors so that you can't open them, 
and when you have opened them you can't shut them. It breathes 
apon your muslin curtains, and they turn into hmpsy strings. It 
steals into your closet, and httle blue specks and white feathery 
spots appear on your pies. A pungent taste develoj)S itself in youi 
pound cake. The stray cup-custard filched from the general lardei 
for private circulation is a keen and acid disappointment. Milk 
refuses to curdle into cheese, and cream Avill tumble about in your 
churn for hours, and come out mitigated buttermilk at last. 

Flies are rampant. If the cover is left off the sugar-bowl, a 
colony of flies take immediate possession. If your bare arm hap- 
pens to be carrying a vase of flowers with special care, a fly lights 
on your elbow, and proceeds by short and easy stages (to him) to 
your wrist. If you are writing, a horde of flies institute an inves- 
tigation of your head and hands, with a special commission for 
your nose. You brush them off, and they only rub their fore-legs 
together, bob their heads, brush down their wings, and go at it 
again. Your kitchen ceiling looks like huckleberries and milk. 
AU the while it is very warm, but not so warm as it is sticky, only 
the stickiness is all on the outside. Within, you feel a constant 
tendency to faU to pieces, because there isn't brace enough in the 
air to hold you together. If we were Enghsh, we should say it 
was nasty weather. Being Americans, we only sigh, "Dog-days!" 



372 



LEISURE HOURS. 



But thej must have their uses. Everything is good for some- 
thing. Let us see. First, they are excellent for the complexion — 
a matter in which, whatever we say, we are all more or less inter- 
ested. Bile-y, jaundice-y, saUow faces clear up into healthy tints. 
Freckles "try out." Pale cheeks tone up into delicate rose, and 
dry, parched, burning flushes tone down to a cool hquescence. AU 
the pores are opened, and the whole system languishes in a pleas- 
ant helplessness — pleasant, if one has been so industrious all the 
year, that he can afford to be idle during the dog-days. 

Dog-days are good as tests. Their effect on curl-paper curls 
is melancholy, but natural curls laugh them to scorn, and riot in 
twistings. Just so the temper. Placidity at Christmas often dis- 
solves in an August fog. What you thought was amiability, may 
have been only oxygen. If you wish to see whether your temper 
can really bear the strains of wind and weather, just remember 
how you went to the middle drawer in your bureau for gloves, fear- 
ing you should be too late for the cars — how the drawer would only 
come out by hitches, first one side, then the other, and then not at 
aU, — how you thrust in your hand up to the wrist, and could just 
not reach the gloves with the end of your longest finger, while 
your wrist was tortured by the sharp edge of the drawer on one 
side, and the sharp edge of the bureau on the other. Did you 
possess your soul in patience? When a shower came suddenly 
pelting down through the fog, and you tried to close the window, 
and got yourself wet through for your pains, and couldn't move it 
an inch for aU your shaking and pounding, — -when you put your 
cake into the oven to "scald," and forgot it, till a sense of some- 
thing burning traveled upstairs to stir your passivity, and you 
rushed down to snatch too late a burnt and blackened loaf, — did 
you remember the first three words of Psalm xxxvii, 1 ? 

In the calm complacency of a balmy Spring morning, we look 
down with a serene smile on the follies of the world. We assume 
a calm and quiet superiority, give it a pat on the shoulder, and 
say, condescendingly: "Yes, you will do very well; a little rickety 
in the joints; a slight softening of the brain; but very passable 



DOG DAYS. 373 



for your age." Nothing can exceed our amiability when we are 
pleased and comfortable; but, floundering up to the neck in July; 
keeping the breath of life in us only by becoming amphibious and 
web-footed; bound to the earth by no stronger tie than ice-cream 
and sherbet; wooing to our side every passing breeze, as if it were 
the king's daughter, — then, a beflowered, bespangled, bedizened 
abomination, coming betwixt the wind and our nobility, is the 
spear of Ithuriel to our smiUng good nature, and we feel disposed 
to pluck its eyes out with a demoniac deHght. 

Dog-days can teach us trust. You have heard of the woman 
who, when her horse ran away, trusted to Providence till the 
breeching broke. A good deal of our trust is hke this. We call 
it Providence, but it is really breeching. Not that breeching is 
not a very good thing to trust to as far as it goes, — only it is not 
Providence. So, when our doors can be bolted and locked, we lie 
down in peace and sleep ; but when they won't go to, and we have 
to make a precarious arrangement of sticks and strings, we feel 
more keenly that we awake because the Lord sustained us. 

Dog-days are friendly to greenness. Our lawns smile with 
velvet verdure. The fog goes into the soil and wraps it around 
the tender strawberry-vines that we have just transplanted, and in 
soft swaddhng-clothes the young fruit will slumber till next Sum- 
mer's sun shall bid it leap to luxuriant life, and a creamy and glo- 
rious death. Down into the heart of the sweet-pea, deep into the 
cup of the morning-glory, steals the kindly mist, and a pink and 
purple splendor crowns the rising day. The cucumber swells its 
prickly sides and snuffs the coming vinegar. The squash-vine 
creeps along the ground, sorrowing that it has all turned to pump= 
kin, but catching from the moist air a deeper shade for the genei- 
ous gold of its blossom. Ah ! in the laboratories of nature the fog 
has a great work to do. 

But the best of dog-days is their departing. Grateful for the 
returning sun and the sweet west wind, we see a deeper blue in 
the sky, and a denser green in the fields. The tall corn waves 
■with a statelier grace. The trees are fretted with fresh -springkig 



374 



LEISURE HOURS. 



life. The earth is a billowy and dimpled emerald, tender and 
smiling; but the sky,— the ever-shifting sky,— is an absorbing and 
perpetual joy. Sometimes its sweep of stainless blue is glorious 
afar. Then the dying sun leaves its legacy in the west, of saffron 
and amber and pale green. Now the clouds sail out white and 
warm into the central blue, or rush exultant, whirhng-up masses 
of lavender rimmed with gold, or shoot from the glowing west, 
spires of rosy pmk, or mount to the zenith, in dehcate shells of 
pearl, or He above the horizon, passionate, breathless, and ruddy, 
floating in seas of fire. Anon they group themselves in all fantas- 
tic shapes. A turreted castle sends down shafts of hght from its 
pearly gates. The maUed warrior places his lance in rest, and a 
couchant lion 

"Scatters across the sunset air 
The golden radiance of his hair." 

"Cloud-land! Gorgeous land!" All grace of outline, all wealth 
of color, are gathered there. Tropical splendor and heavenly 
purity kiss each other, and the angels of God can almost be seen 
ascending and descending. 

So, gazing with thankful and reverent hearts, we remember 
that great city, the holy Jerusalem, descending out of heaven from 
God, whose hght is Eke unto a stone most precious, for the glory 
of God doth hghten it, and the Lamb is the light thereof. 

So, when the west winds come laden with fragrance from the 
praines, and the cold winds blow down from the north, bearing us 
heahng and strength, we will gird up our loins anew to the work of 
the Lord of light, contented to rest and stand in our lot at the end 
of the days. 



SAYINGS OF THE SAGES. 375 



Sayings of tlie Sages. 
Abuse: 

Abuse, like other poisons, when administered in too strong a 
dose, is thrown off by the intended victim, and often relieves when 
it was meant to destroy. 

Accomplishments: 

AccompKshments are sociable, but there is nothing so sociable 
as a cultivated mind. — Anon, 

Accusation: 

To an impudent accusation oppose a short and humble answer. 

Acquaintance: 

It is good discretion not to make too much of any man at the 
first; because one cannot hold out that proportion. — Lord Bacon. 

Acquirement: 

That which we acquire with most difficulty, we retain the 
longest; as those who have earned a fortune are usually more 
careful with it than those who have inherited one. — Colton. 

Acrimony: 

It is true of many persons, that their memory is nothing but 
a row of hooks to hang up grudges on. 

Actions: 

Of every noble action, the intent 

Is to give worth reward — vice punishment. 

— Beaumont and Fletcher. 
There is no nobler motive of action than the desire of doing 
good. — Anon. 

With a double vigilance should we watch our actions, when 
we reflect that good and bad ones are not childless,, and that, in 



LEISURE HOURS. 



both cases, the offspring goes beyond the parent, every good beget- 
ting a better, every bad a worse. 

Acts: 

Avoiding evil is but one half of our work — we must also do 
good. One act of beneficence, one act of real usefulness, is worth 
all the abstract sentiment in the world; and that humanity is 
despicable which can be contented to pity where ib might assuage. 

Adversity: 

He that can heroically endure adversity, will bear prosperity 
with equal greatness of soul; for the mind that cannot be deiected 
by the former, is not likely to be transported with the latter. 

It is adversity which is the real touchstone of mortality : it 
is the breath of affliction that lays bare the human heart. 

Adversity is the trial of principle, without it a man hardly 
knows whether he is honest or not. 

Advice: 

Advice should always be given in the smoothest and most 
polished medium — as you will see nurses administering medicine 
to children in a silver spoon. 

Advice, like snow, the softer it falls the longer it dwells upon 
and the deeper it sinks into the mind. 

Never retire at night without being wiser than when you rose 
in the morning, by having learned something useful during the 
day. 

A word of advice may be of service to men in directing their 
thoughts to what they were not regarding; but we should not 
expect that we can make persons see exactly as we do It is one 
thing to make a man turn his head, and another to make a man 
see with your eyes. — Anon. 

Affectation: 

Affectation is a greater enemy to the face than the small-pox, 
— St. Evremand. 



SAYINGS OF THE SAGES. 377 

I will not call vanity and affectation twins, because, more 
properly, vanity is the mother, and affectation is the darling- 
daughter; vanity is the sin and affectation is the punishment: 
The first may be called the root of self-love, the other the fruit. 
Vanity is never at its full growth till it spreadeth into affectation ; 
and then it is complete. — Saville. 

Affection: 

When the tide of family affection runs smooth and unbroken, 
it bears the bark of happiness securely on its bosom. — Mrs. Opie. 

Affection, like spring flowers, breaks through the most 
frozen ground at last, and the heart which asks but for another 
heart to make it happy will never seek in vain. 

Affliction: 

It is from the remembrance of joys we have lost that the 
arrows of affliction are pointed. — Mackenzie. 

Afflictions are the medicine of the mind: if they are not tooth- 
some, let it suffice that they are wholesome. It is not required in 
physic that it should please, but heal. — Bishop Henshaw. 

Ambition: 

Every man ought to aim at eminence, not by pulling others 
down, but by raising himself. 

It is not for man to rest in absolute contentment. He is 
born to hopes and aspirations, as the sparks fly upwards, unless 
he has brutified his naturp, and quenched the spirit of immortality, 
which is his portion. — B. Southey. 

Ang-er: 

He that lets the sun go down upon his wrath, and goes angry 
to bed, is like to have the devil for his bedfellow. 

Anger is most fearful when unaccompanied by tears : it is 
lightning without rain. 

Anger is like the waves of a troubled sea; when it is cor- 



378 LEISURE HOURS. 



rected with a soft reply, as with a httle strand, it retires, and 
leaves nothing behind but froth and shells — no permanent mis- 
chief. — J. Taylor. 

Anger in dispute is like an unquiet horse in a dusty way — -it 
raises such a cloud in the eye of the understanding, that it 
obscures its vision, and impedes its operations. 

Annoyances: 

The prick of a pin often gives more acute pain than the gash 
inflicted by a lancet. So we pass through life ; our minor sorrows 
are frequently harder to bear than our greater afflictions. 

Anxiety : 

Anxiety, when it seizes the heart, is a dangerous disease, 
productive both of much sin and much misery. It acts as a corrosive 
of the mind: it eats out our present enjoyments, and substitutes' 
in their place, many an acute pain. — Blair. 

Appearances: 

Appearances seldom ought to determine our judgment. When 
the honor, probity, or reputation of some one is the matter in 
question, it ought not to be pronounced without a thorough investi- 
gation of the subject; and in that case, suspicions are never 
certainties. 

How many fine hats serve as a cover for worthless heads, and 
how many plaited shirt- bosoms cover a hollow cavern where a 
heart should be lodged ! 

Application: 

No one can ever become learned, except by his own application. 
Modes and opportunities of education may facilitate our progtess; 
but, on the whole, our attainments must be resolved into our own 
diligence. 

Association: 

As the meanest scrap of gauze, of bead, or of tinsel looks 
beautiful and costly through the mirror of the kaleidoscope, so does 



SAYINGS OF THE SAGES. 379 

the most common and dreary scene acquire attraction and value, 
when beheld through the beautifying medium of gratified affection, 
and in the society of those whom we tenderly love. 

Atheism: 

Atheism is the result of ignorance and pride; of strong 
sense and feeble reason ; of good eating and ill-living. It is the 
plague of society, the corrupter of manners, and the underminer 
of property. — Jeremy Collier. 

Authority: 

Though authority be a stubborn bear, yet he is often led by 
the nose with gold. — Ihid. 

They that govern most make the least noise. You see when 
they row in a barge, they that do di'udgery work, slash, and puff, 
and sweat; but he that governs sits quietly at the stern and 
scarce is seen to stir. — Selden. 

Avarice: 

Avarice reigns most in those who have but few qualities to 
recommend them. This is a weed that will grow in a barren soil. 
— Hughes. 

Avarice is of all passions the most sordid, the most clogged 
and covered with dirt and dross, so that it cannot raise its wings 
beyond the smell of the earth. 

Atoms: 

An ounce of essence is worth a gallon of fluid. A wise saw 
is more valuable than a whole book, and a plain truth is better 
than an argument. — Halihurton. 

Bargains: 

A wise man will see inconveniences before he makes his bargain, 
and an honest man will stand to his bargain whatever may be its 
inconveniences. 



380 LEISURE HOUES 



Bashfulness: 

Mere bashfulness without merit is awkward; and merit 
without; modesty, ms-olent: but modest merit has a double claim 
to acceptance, and generally meets with as many patrons as 
beholders. — Hughes. 

Beautiful Thing^s: 

Beautiful things are suggestive of a pure and higher life, and 
fill us with mingled love and fear. They have a graciousness that 
wins us, and an excellence to which we involuntarily do reverence. 
If you are poor, yet pure and modestly aspiring, keep a vase of 
flowers on your table, and they will help to maintain your dignity, 
and secure for you consideration and delicacy of behavior. — 
T. T. Lynch. 

Beauty: 

Beauty in the possession of an unthinking woman is more 
dangerous than a drawn sword in the haT:jds of an idiot. 

Beauty depends more upon the movement of the face than 
upon the form of the features when at rest. Thus, a countenance 
habitually under the influence of amiable feelings acquires a 
beauty of the highest order, from the frequency with which such 
feelings are the original causes of the movement of expressions 
which stamp their character upon it. — Mrs. S. C. Hall. 

Belief: 

Belief, like a young puppy, is born blind, and must swallow 
whatever food is given to it; when it can see, it caters for itself. 

Belle: 

A beautiful but useless insect, without wings, whose colors 
fade ou beiog removed from the sunshine. 

Benevolence: 

Benevolence always flows from a pure fountain. Without a 
friend, the world is but a wilderness. 



SAYINGS OF THE SAGES. 381 

He that does good to another man does also good to himself; 
not only in the consequence, but in the very act of doing it; for 
the conscience of well-doing is an ample reward. — Senaca. 

Bigotry: 

Bigotry murders rehgion to frighten fools with her ghost. 

Blushing-: 

What a mysterious thing is a blush ; that a single word, a 
look, or a thought, should send that inimitable carnation over the 
cheek! Strange, too, that it is only the face, the human face, that 
is capable of blusbing! The hand or the foot does not turn red 
with modesty or shame, more than the glove or the sock which 
covers it. It is the face only that is heaven ! 

Boasting": 

A man should never boast of his courage, nor a woman of 
her virtue, lest their doing so should be the cause of calling 
their possession of them into question. 

Books: 

Books, like friends, should be^few and well-chosen. Like 
friends, we should return to them again and again; for, like friends, 
they will never fail us, never cease to instruct, never cloy. — Joiner- 
ianal 1772. 

I have "Somewhere seen it observed that we should make the 
same use of a book that the bee does of a flower: she steals 
sweets from it, but does not injure it. — Colton. 

Books are faithful repositories, which may be a while neglected 
or forgotten, but when they are opened again impart their instruc- 
tion. Memory once interrupted is not to be recalled; written 
learning is a fixed luminary, which, after the cloud that has hidden 
it has passed away, is again bright in its proper station. Tradi- 
tion is but a meteor which, if it once falls, cannot be rekindled. — 
Dr. Johnson. 



382 LEISUEE HOUBS. 



To be always among books is to die among the living, and 
live among the dead. 

Bible: 

The Bible will be to you what you are to it. To the Christian 
eye, every page is covered with a mild jadiance. With divine 
light and sunshine, an instinct in himself detects the words — a 
secret life in the words themselves makes them stand out prom- 
inent and lustrous. — Rev. T. Binney. 

It is a revelation from heaven, designed for the instruction, 
comfort and salvation of mankind; and the experience of ages 
has but served to show its reality and truth. 

There is no book upon which we can rest in a dying moment 
but the Bible. — John Selden. 

Birth: 

When real nobleness accompanies that imaginary one of birth, 
the imaginary seems to mix with real, and becomes real too. — 
Greville. 

Aristotle hearing a man boast that he was a native of a fam- 
ous and mighty city, told him "that does not signify so much; the 
question is, Are you worthy of such a city?" 

Birth is a shadow. Courage self sustain'd 

Outlords succession's phlegm, and needs no ancestors. 

I am above descent, and prize no blood. 

—Hill 

Borrowing": 

Neither a borrower nor a lender be; 
For loan oft loses both itself and friend. 
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. 

— Shakespeare. 

Boys: 

Boys, did you ever think that this world, with all its 
wealth and woe, with all its mines and mountains, oceans, seas 
and rivers, with all its shipping, its steamboats, railroads and 
magnetic telegraphs, with all its millions of grouping men, and all 



SAYINGS OF THE SAGES. 383 

the science and progress of ages, will soon be given over to boys of 
the present age — boys like you? Believe it, and look abroad upon 
your inheritance, and get ready to enter upon its possession. The 
presidents, kings, governors, statesmen, philosphers, ministers, 
teachers, men of the future — all are boys now. — Elihu Burritt. 

Brain: 

The chambers of the brain are full of seed, for which the 
feelings and passions are the flower, soil and forcing-glasses. 

Business: 

A man who can not mind his own business is not to be trusted 
with the king's. — Saville. 

Take pleasure in your business, and it will become your recrea- 
tion. Hope for the best, think for the worst, and bear whatever 
happens. 

There are in business three things necessary — knowledge, 
temper and time. — Feltham. 

Caution: 

Caution is the lower story of prudence. 

It is a good thing to learn caution by the misfortunes of 
others. — Publius Syrius. 

Beware equally of a sudden friend and a slow enemy. — Art of 
Thinking. 

Censure: 

Some people seem to consider the severity of their censures 
on the errors of others as an atonement for their own. 

The censure of those that are opposite to us is the nicest com- 
mendation that can be given us. — St. Evremond. 

Character: 

You may depend upon it that he is a good man whose inti- 
mate friends are all good. — Lavater. 

Character is a perfectly educated will. — Navolis. 



384 LEISUEE HOUES. 



As day light can be seen through small holes, so do little 
things show a person's character. 

Charity: 

Proportion your charity to others' necessities and your own 
ability; and where the object is doubtful, rather relieve a drone 
than let a bee perish. 

Charity is the affection of good, and faith the affection of 
truth. 

He who receives a good turn should never forget it; he who 
does one should never remember it. — Charron. 

Cheerfulness: 

A mery heart goes all the day, 
A sad tires in a mile. 

Shakespeare. 

A cheerful temper joined with innocence will make beauty 
attractive, knowledge delightful, and wit good natured. It will 
lighten sickness, poverty and affliction; convert ignorance into an 
amiable simplicity, and render deformity itself agreeable. — 
Addison. 

Company: 

Bad company is like a nail driven into a post, which, after 
the first and second blow, maybe drawn out with little difficulty: 
But being once driven up to the head, the pincers cannot take hold 
to draw it out. — St. Agustine. 

Conscience: 

The conscience is the most elastic material in the world. To- 
day you can not stretch it over a mole-hill, to-morrow it hides a 
mountain. 

Conscience is the best friend we have : with it we may bid 
defiance to man; without it, all the friends in the world can be of 
no use to us. 



SAYINGS OF THE SAGES. 385 

A good conscience is better than two witnesses : it will con- 
sume your grief as the sun disolves ice. It is a spring when you 
are thirsty, a staff when you are weary, a screen* when the sun 
burns you, a pillow in death. — Zhenag. 

We shoiild have all our communications with men, as in the 
presence of God; and with God, as in the presence of men. — 
Colton. 

Consistency; 

Either take Christ in your lives, or cast him out of your lips ; 
either be that thou seemest, or else be what thou art. — Dyer. 

Contentment: 

He is happy whose circumstances suit his temper; but he is 
more excellent who can s'it his temper to any circumstances. 

Contentment is a pearl of great price, and whoever procures it 
at the expense of ten thousand desires makes a wise and happy 
purchase. — Balguy. 

Conversation: 

Conversation is the daughter of reasoning, the mother of 
knowledge, the breath of the soul, the commerce of hearts, the 
bond of friendship, the nourishment of content, and the occupa- 
tion of men of wit. 

Coquette: 

A. coquette is a rose from which every lover plucks a leaf; — 
the thorns are reserved for her husband. 

One who draws a check upon the bank of affection, and then 
dishonors it. — Family Friend. 

Courag-e: 

Courage without reason becomes rashness. 

I dare do all that may become a man; 
He who dare do more is none. 

-^-Shaherpeare. 



386 LEISURE HOURS. 



Courtesy: 

Proud looks lose hearts, but courteous words will win them. 

Covetousness: 

Covetousness, like a candle ill-made, smothers the splendor 
of a happy fortune in its own grease. 

Coxcomb: 

Nature has sometimes made a fool ; but a coxcomb is always 
of a man's own making. — Addison. 

Curiosity: 

Curiosity is an ancient female, the daughter of Idleness and 
Ignorance, and is perpetually wandering over the earth in search 
of the mushroom Novelty, which springs up in great abundance. 

Deatli: 

Death is the commingling of eternity with time; in the death 
of a good man, eternity is seen looking through time. — Goethe. 

Death opens the gate of fame, and shuts the gate of envy 
after it; it unlooses the chain of the captive, and puts the bonds- 
man's task into another man's hand. — Sterne. 

Deceit: 

Oh! what a tangled web we weave, 
When first we practice to deceive. 

—Sir W. Scott. 

Defamation: 

We never injure our own characters so much as when we 
attack those of others. 

Depravity: 

It is easy to exclude the noon -tide light by closing the eyes; 
and it is easy to resist the clearest truth by hardening the heart 
against it. 

Discontent: 

Man creates more discontent to himself than ever is occa- 
sioned by others. 



SAYINGS OF THE SAGES. 387 

Discretion: 

There are three things that ought to be considered before some 
things are spot.en, — the manner, the place, and the time. — Welsh 
Triad. 

Distpust: 

Trust him little who. praises all; him less who censures all; 
and him least who is indifferent about all. — Lavater. 

Dress: 

There is one fashion that never changes. The sparkling 
eyes, the coral lip, the rosebud blushing on the cheek, the rounded 
form, the elastic step, are always in fashion. Health — rosy, 
bounding, gladsome health — is never out of fashion. What pil- 
grimages are made, what prayers are uttered, for its possession! 
Failing in the pursuit, what treasures are lavished in concealing 
its loss or counterfeiting charms ! 

Drunkenness: 

A drunken man is like a drowned man, a fool, and a madman ; 
one draught above heat makes him a fool ; the second mads him ; 
and the third drowns him. — Shakespeare. 

Economy: 

He that is taught to live upon Httle owes more to his father's 
wisdom than he that has a great deal left him, does to his father's 
care. — Penn. 

No man is rich whose expenditure exceeds his means; and 
no one is poor whose incomings exceed his outgoings. — Hali- 
burton. 

Education: 

'Tis education forms tlie common mind; ° 
Just as the twig is bent, the tree's inclined. 

Employments: 

We have employments assigned to us for every circumstance 



388 LEISUKE HOUES. 



in life. When we are alone, we have our own thoughts to watch; 
in the family, our tempers; and in company, our tongues. — 
Hannah Moore. 

Ennui: 

A French word for an English malady which generally arises 
from the want of a want, and constitutes the complaint of those 
who have nothing to complain of. 

Envy: 

As rust corrupts iron, so envy corrupts men. — Antisthenes. 

Envy is an ill-natured vice, and is made up of meanness and 
malice. It wishes the force of goodness to be strained, and 
measures of happiness abated. It laments over prosperity, and 
sickens at the sight of health. It oftentimes wants spirit as well 
as good nature. — Jeremy Collier. 

Error: 

There is more true greatness in generously owning a fault, 
and making proper reparation for it, than in obstinately defend- 
ing a wrong conduct. But, quitting your purpose, retreat rather 
like a lion than a cur. 

Errors like straws upon tlie surface flow; 

He who would search for pearls must dive below. 

— Dryden. 

Evil: 

He who wiU fight the devil with his own weapon must not 
wonder if he finds him an over-match — South. 

Examination: 

If we examined our own faults attentively, we should have 
less time to detect, and more inclination to pardon, those of 
others. 

Example: 

Whatever parent gives his children good instruction, and sets 
them at the same time a bad example, may be considered as 



SAYINGS OF THE SAGES. 389 



bringing them food in one baud and poison in the other. ■ 

Balguy. 

Excesses: 

The excesses of our yonth are draughts upon our old age, 
payable with interest, about thirty years after date. — CaUon. 

Excuse: 

An excuse is worse and more terrible than a lie; for an 
excuse is a lie guarded. — Pope. 

Exertion: 

If you would relish your food, labor for it; if you would en- 
joy the raiment, pay for it before you wear it; if you would sleep 
soundly, take a clear conscience to bed with you. 

Expectation: 

Expectation takes up more joy on trust than fruition can 
discharge. It imagines its roses all flower and no prickle. 

Expenses: 

Beware of little expenses; a small leak will sink a great ship. — 
Dr. Franklin. ' 

It is as disagreeable to a prodigal to keep an account of his 
expenses, as it is to a sinner to examine his conscience. 

Experience: 

Knowledge sold at a high price by misfortune to indiscrefon 
and taken care of by memory. 

Experience has taught us little, if it has not instrucfed us to 
pity the errors of others, and to amend our own. 

Experience takes very high school- wages, but she teaches like 
no other. 

Exposure: 

If every man had a window in his breast, blinds would be in 
a very great demand. 



390 LEISURE HOURS. 



Failure: 

Failures are with heroic minds the stepping-stones to success. 

Falsehood: 

Falsehood is never so successful as when she baits her hook 
with truth ; and no opinions so fatally mislead us as those that are 
not wholly wrong, as no watches so effectually deceive the wearers 
as those that are sometimes right. — Colton. 

Falsehood, like distorted reflections from an uneven mirror, 
suffers death by contact with each other. 

Fame: 

Fame is an ill you may with ease obtain, 

A sad oppression to be bore with pain: 

And when you would the noisy clamour drown, 

You'll find it hard to lay your burthen down. 

-Cooke. 

Fame's loudest blast upon the ear of Time leaves but a dying 
echo ! 

Fate: 

Fate steals along with ceaseless tread, 
And meets us oft when least we dread; 
Frowns in the storm with threatening brow, 
Yet in the sunshine strikes the blow. 

Fashionable Life: 

Fashionable society is a merry-go-round that first makes us 
giddy, and then sick. 

Fastidiousness: 

Fastidiousness is the envelope of indelicacy. 

Faults: 

It is not so much the being exempt from faults, as the havmg 
overcome them, that is an advantage to us; it being with the follies 
of the mind as with the weeds of a field, which, if destroyed and 



SAYINGS OF THE SAGES. 391 

consumed upon the place of their birth, enrich and improve it 
more than if none had ever sprung there. — Pope. 

If we took as much trouble to conquer as to disguise our faults, 
we would get rid of them very soon. 

Fear: 

Fear sometimes adds wings to the heels, and sometimes naila 
them to the ground, and fetters them from moving. — Montaigne. 

Flattery: 

Flattery is like a flail, which, if adroitly used, will box your 
own ears, instead of tickling those of the corn. 

There is a vast difference between the expression of a due and 
delicate appreciation of merit, and that false and exaggerated 
praise which is dictated by adulation. The former is always 
received with pleasure, but the latter wounds the susceptibility of 
those on whom it is lavished; to a mind rightly constituted, there 
being nothing more painful than undeserved, or even excessive 
commendation. 

Flirtation: 

Flirtation, whether seriously or lightly considered, is injurious 
to a woman, as well as unbecoming in her. It is a broad, unblush- 
ing confession which the individual makes of her desire to attract 
the notice of men. No girl ever made a happy union by flirtation; 
because no man, capable of making a woman permanently happy, 
was ever attracted by that which is disgusting to persons of intel- 
ligence and refinement. 

Folly: 

Vanity has many silly tricks; despotism, many cruel devices; 
love, many strange ways ; but folly is constant. 

Fools: 

Fools purchase the same experience more than once. 

A fool is of service to a wise man, but learns nothing from him. 



392 LEISURE HOURS. 



Forg-iveness: 

Forgiveness is the most refined and generous point of virtue 
that human nature can attain to. Cowards have done good and 
kind actions ; but a coward never forgave ; it is not in his nature. 
He that cannot forgive others, breaks the bridge over which he 
must pass himself, for every man has need to be forgiven. — 
Herbert 

Forg"otten: 

There is nothing, no, nothing innocent or good that dies and 
is forgotten ; let us hold to that faith, or none. An infant, a prat- 
tling child, dying in its cradle, will live again in the better thoughts 
of those who loved it; and will play its part, through them, in 
the redeeming actions of the world,' though its body be burned to 
ashes, or drowned in the deepest sea. There is not an angel added 
to the host of heaven but does its blessed work on earth in those 
that loved it here. Forgotten ! oh, if the good deeds of human 
creatures could be traced to their source, how beautifully would 
even death appear; for how much charity, mercy, and purified 
affection would be seen to have their growth in dusty graves. — 
Dickens. 

The human race are sons of sorrow born; 

And each must have its portion. Vulgar minds 

Refuse, or crouch beneath their load; the brave 

Bear theirs without repining. 

— Mallet. 

Fortune: 

Fortune is ever seen accompanying industry, and is as often 
trundling in a wheelbarrow as lolling in a coach and six. — Gold- 
smith. 

To be thrown upon one's own resources is to be cast in the 
very lap of fortune; for our faculties then undergo a development, 
and display an energy of which they were previously unsuscepti- 
ble.— i^'ran/t/m. 



SAYENGS OF THE SAGES. 393 



Fortune's wings are made of Time's feathers, which stay not 
whilst one may measure them. — Lilhj. 

Frailty: 

As I grow older, I become more lenient to the sins of frail 
humanity. The man who loudly denounces, I always suspect. He 
knows too much of crime to denounce a fellow-creature unheard; a 
knowledge that can only be obtained by criminahty itself. The 
hypocrite always strives to divert attention from his own wicked- 
ness by denouncing unsparingly that of others. He thinks he 

shall seem good in exact ratio as he makes others seem bad. 

Goethe. 

Friend: 

A faithful friend is better "than gold — a medicine of misery, 
an only possession. — liartuu. 

A false friend is like the shadow of a sundial, which appears 
while the sun shines, but vanishes at the approach of the smallest 
cloud. 

Thou mayest be sure that he that will in private tell thee of 
thy faults is tl y friend, for he adventures thy dislike, and doth 
hazard thy hatred; for there are few men that can endure it, every 
man for the most part del ghling in self-praise, which i3 one of the 
most universal follies that bewitcheth mankind. — Sir W. Ealeiyh. 

Friends: 

Sweet is the memo.-y of distant friends! Like the mellow rays 
of the departing sun, it falls tenderly yet sadly on the heart. — 
W ashin<jton Irving. 

Friendship: 

Nothing is more dangerous than a friend without discretion ; 
even a prudent enemy is preferable, — LaFontaine. 

Frug'alitj'': 

Frugality may be termed the daughter of prudence, the sister 
of temperance, and the parent of liberty. He that is extravagant 



394 LEISURE HOURS. 



will quickly become poor, aud poverty will enforce dependence, and 
invite corruption. — Ibid. 

Generosity: 

Generosity is the happy medium between parsimony and pro- 
fuseness. 

A generous mind identifies itself with all around; but a self- 
ish one identifies all things with itself. 

Gentility: 

There cannot be a surer proof of low origin, or of an innate 
meanness of disposition, than to be always talking and thinking of 
being genteel. — Hazlitt. 

Nor stand so mucli on your gentility, 

Which is an airy and mere borrow'd thing 

From dead men's dust and bones, and none of yours, 

Except ycu make or hold it. 

— Ben Jonson. 

Gold: 

A vain man's motto is, Win gold and wear it; a generous 
man's. Win gold and share it; a miser's, Win gold and spare it; a 
profligate's. Win gold and spend it; a broker's. Win gold and lend 
it; a fool's, Win gold and end it; a gambler's. Win gold and loose 
it; a wise man's, Win gold and use it. 

Gold is an idol worshiped in all climates, without a single 
temple, and by all classes, without a single hypocrite. 

Good: 

Good, the more 

Communicated, more abundant grows. 

—Milton. 

He is good that does good to others. If he suffers from the 
good he does, he is better still ; and if he suffers from them to 
whom he did good, he is arrived to that height of goodness, that 
nothing but an increase of his sufferings can add to it; if it proves 
his death, his virtue is at its summit — it is heroism complete. — 
Brmjere. 



SAYINGS OF THE SAGES. 395 



Good Breeding": 

One principal point of good breeding is to suit our behavior 
to the three several degrees of men, — our superiors, our equals, 
and those below us. — Swift. 

Good breeding is a guard upon the tongue; the misfortune is 
that we put it on and off with our fine clothes and visiting faces, 
and do not wear it where it is wanted — at hom-e. 

Good Name: 

Consider that the invisible thing called a good name is made 
up of the breath of numbers that speak well of you ; so that, if by 
a disobliging word you silence the meanest, the gale will be less, 
strong which is to bear up your esteem. And though nothing is 
so vain as the eager pursuit of empty applause, yet to be well 
thought of, and to be kindly used by the world, ie like a gloiy 
about a woman's head; it is a perfume she carries about with her> 
and leaveth wherever she goeth ; it is a charm against its will. 
Malice may empty her quiver, but cannot wound; the dirt will 
not stick, the jests will not take; without the consent of the 
world, a scandal doth not go deep; it is only a slight stroke upon 
the injured party, and returneth with greater force upon those 
that gave it. — Saville. 

Goodness: 

True goodness is like the glow-worm in this, that it shines 
most when no eyes, except those of heaven, are upon it. 

Gossiping-: 

If you wish to cultivate a gossiping, meddling, censorious 
spirit in your children, be sure, when they come Lome from 
church, a visit, or any other place where you do not accompany 
them, to ply them with questions concerning what everybody 
wore, how everybody looked, what everybody said and did; and if 
you find anything in this to censure, always do it in their hearing. 
You may rest assured, if you pursue a course of this kind, they 



396 LEISURE HOUES. 



will Eot return to you unladen with intelligence; and rather than 
it should be uninteresting, they will, by degrees, learn to embel- 
lish in such a manner as shaU not fail to call forth remarks and 
expressions of wonder from you. You will, by this course, render 
the spirit of curiosity, which is so early visible in children, and. 
which, if rightly directed, may be made the instrument, to enrich- 
ing and enlarging their minds, a vehicle of mischief which will 
serve only to narrow them. — Tlie Moraliat. 

Gratitude: 

It is a species of agreeable servitude to be under an obligation 
to those we esteem. — Queen Christina. 



Grave: 



The most magnificent and costly dome 
Is but an upper chamber to a tomb; 
No spot on earth but has supplied a grave, 
And human skulls the spacious ocean pave. 



-Ibid. 



Attjactive as home is, there is one other place that is still 
nearer the human heart; and that is, the churchyard which holds 
our friends. A mother's grave is the Mecca that our memory ever 
kneels to, be our pilgrimage where it may. — Anon. 

It buries every error — covers every defect — extinguishes every 
resentment. From its peaceful bosom spring none but fond regrets 
and tender recollections. Who can look down upon the grave of 
an enemy, and not feel a compunctious throb that he should have 
warred with the poor handful of dust that lies mouldering before 
him. — WSfsldnijUm Irving. 

A grave, wherever found, preaches a short and pithy sermon 
to the soul. — Old House hy the River. 

Grief: 

Every one can master a grief but he that has it. — Shakespeare. 



SAYINGS OF THE SAGES. 397 



Eeal grief is never clamorous ; it seeks to shun every eye ; and 
breathes, in sohtude and silence, the sighs that come from the 
heart. 

Grief, madam! 'Tis the pensivenes.s of joj- 
Too deep for language, — too serene for mirth, 
Makes me seem sad. 

The mist of heavy years — is joy so hearted. 
That it can find no colour in the range 
Of gladness to express it: — so accept 
A solemn hue from grief. 

— Ted four d. 

Guilt: 

Guilt is the source of sorrow, 'tis the friend — 
Th' avenging friend— that follows us behind 
With whips and stiugs. 

Guilt, though it may attain temporal splendour, can never 
confer real happiness. The evident consequences of our crimes 
long survive their commission, and, like the ghosts of the miirdered, 
forever haunt the steps of the malefactor. The paths of virtue, 
though seldom those of worldly greatness, are always those of 
pleasantness and peace. — Sir Walter Scott. 

Nothing can be more absurd than the idea that looking guilty 
proves guilt. An honest man charged with crime is much mort 
likely to blush at the accusation than the real offender, who is 
generally prepared for the event, and has his face "ready made" 
for the occasion. The very thought of being suspected of anything 
criminal will bring tbe blood to an innocent man's cheek in ninC 
cases out of ten. The most guilty looking person we ever saw was 
a man arrested for stealing a horse, wbich turned out to be his 
own property. — Boston Post. 

Habit: 

In the majority of things, habit is a greater plague tban ever 
afflicted Egypt; in religious character, it is a grand felicity. — Foster. 



398 LEISURE HOUES. 



All habits gather, by unseen degrees, 
As brooks make rivers, rivers run to seas. 

— Dryden. 

Happiness: 

Happiness only begins when wishes end; and he who hankers 
after more enjoys nothing. 

No man can judge of the happiness of another. As the new 
moon plays upon the waves, and seems to our eyes to favour with 
a peculiar beam one long track amidst the waters, leaving the rest 
in comparative obscurity, yet all tbe while she is no niggard in her 
lustre; for though the rays that meet our eyes seem to us as tbough 
they were not, yet, with an equal and unfavoring loveliness, she 
mirrors herself in every wave. Even so, perhaps, happiness falls 
with the same brightness and power over the whole expanse of 
life, though, to our limited eyes, she seems only to rest on those 
billows from which the ray is reflected l)ack upon our sight. — 
Bulwer-Lyton. 

Happiness is a perfume that one cannot shed over another 
without a few drops falling on one's self. 

The remembrances of past happiness are the wrinkles of the 
soul. 

Hate: 

The madness of the heart. — Byron. 

A man should not allow himself to hate even his enemies; 
because, if you indulge this passion in some occasions, H will rise 
of itself in others; if you hate your enemies, you will contract such 
a vicious habit of mind as, by degrees, will break out upon those 
who are your friends, or those who are indifferent to you. — Plutarch. 

Home: 

If ever household affections and loves are graceful things> 
they are graceful in the poor. The ties that bind the proud and 
the wealthy to home may be forged on earth, but those which 
link the poor man to his humble hearth are of the true metal and 



SAYINGS OF THE SAGES. 399 

bear the stamp of heaven. The name of high descent may love 
the halls and lands of his inheritance as a part of himself, as 
trophies of his birth and power; the poor man's attachment to the 
tenement he holds, which strangers have held before, and may to- 
morrow occupy again, has a worthier root, struck deep into a purer 
soil. His household gods are of flesh and blood, with no alloy of 
silver, gold or precious stones; he has no property but in the 
affections of h's own heart; and when they endear bare floors and 
walls, despite of toil and scanty meals, that man has his love of 
home from God, and his rude hut becomes a solemn place. — 
Dickens. 

Hope: 

Hope is like the wing of an angel soaring up to heaven, and 
bearing our prayers to the throne of God. — Jeremy Taylor. 

The setting of a great hope is like the setting of the sun. The 
brightness of our life is gone, shadows of the evening fall around 
us, and the world seems but a dim reflection itself — a broader 
shadow. We look forward into the coming lonely night: the soul 
withdraws itself. Then stars arise, and the night is holy. — Long- 
fellow. 

Hope is a prodigal young heir, and experience is his banker; 
but his drafts are seldom honored, sinca there is often a heavy 
balance against them, because he draws largely on a small capital, 
of which he is not yet in possession, and if he were, would die. 

Humility: 

Greatness in simplicity. 

The result of a deep acquaintance with our own hearts. 

The publican's prayer. 

Man in his loftiest attitude, because leaning most on the help 
of heaven. 

The keystone of Christianity's arch. 

A beautful centre, from which every other virtue radiates. — 
Fantihj Friend. 



400 LEISURE HOURS. 



Among the many virtues which are requisite for the right 
governing of the passions and affections, humility may well claim 
a forward place. This virtue is not only excellent in itself, but 
useful towards the obtaining of the rest. It is the foundation on 
■which all the others must be built; and he who hopes to gain them 
without this will be like the foolish architect of old, who built his 
house upon the sand. 

Hypocrisy: 

Tlie good meaner hath two tongues, the hypocrite a double 
tongue. The good man's heart speaks without his tongue, the 
hypocrite's tongue without his heart. — Wanvick. 

He who is passionate and hasty is generally honest. It is 
your cool dissembling hypocrite of whom you should beware. 
There's no deception in a bulldog. It is only the cur that sneaks 
up and bites you when your back is turned. 

Idleness: 

Do not allow idleness to deceive you; for while you give him 
to-day, he steals to-morrow from you. — A. Crowquill. 

To disc )ver how many idle men there are in a place, all tha 
is necessary is to set two dogs fighting. 

An idler's like a watch that wants both hands, 
As useless when it goes as when it stands. 



Immodesty: 

Immodest words admits of no defense. 
For want of modesty is want of sense. 



— Penrose. 



— Pope. 



Impatience: 

Impatience dries the blood sooner than a,ge or sorrow. — Creon. 

Incomes: ' 

Our incomes are like our shoes : If too small they will gall 
and pinch us; but if too large they will cause us to stumble and 
trip. 



SAYINGS OF THE SAGES. 401 

Industry: 

At the workingman's house hunger looks ^ in, but dares not 
enter; nor will the bailiff or constable enter; for industry pays 
debts, but despair increaseth them. — Franklin. 

Ing-ratitude : 

Ingratitude is a nail, which, driven into the tree of courtesy 
causes it to wither; it is a broken channel, by which the foundations 
of the affections are undermined; and a lump of soot, which, fall- 
ing into the dish of friendship, destroys its scent and flavour. — 
Basile. 

Innocence: 

Innocence, unmoved 
At a false accusation, doth the more 
Confirm itself, and guilt is best discover'd 
By its own fears. 

Beaumont and Fletcher. 

Jealousy: 

Jealousy is a gin which we set to catcli serpents, and which, 
as soon as we have caught them, sting us. — Felthain. 

Joy: 

Worldly joy is a suaflower which shuts when the gleam of 
prosperity is over; spiritual joy is an evergreen — an unfading 
plant. 

Kindness: 

We are but passengers of a day, whether it is in a stage-coach, 
or in the immense machine of the universe. In God's name, then, 
why should we not make the way as pleasant to each other as 
possible? 

Knowledge: 

Knowledge will not be acquired without pains and application. 
It is troublesome and deep digging for pure waters ; but when you 
once come to the spring, they rise up and meet you. — Felton. 



402 LEISURE HOURS. 



Law: 

Law is a thicket in which many a fair flower flourishes; but 
it is so overgrown with villianous, low, dirty, creeping underwood, 
that the poor silly sheep who ventures into it rarely escapes with 
a whole coat to his back. — The Cigar. 

Laws are like cobwebs, which may catch small flies, but lets 
wasps and hornets break through. — Swift. 

Laziness: 

Laziness grows on people; it begins in cobwebs, and ends in 
iron chains. The more business a man has to do, the more he is 
able to accomplish, for he learns to economize time. 

The house of correction is the fittest hospital for those crip- 
ples whose legs are lame through their own laziness. 

Learning': 

Learning is obtained only by labor; it cannot be bought with 
money; if it could, the rich would always be inteUigent. 

Wear your learning, like your watch, in a private pocket; and 
do not pull it out and strike it, merely to show that you have one. 

Leisure and Solitude: 

Leisure and solitude are the best effects of riches, because 
mother of thought. Both are avoided by most rich men who 
seek company and business, which are signs of being weary of 
hemselves. — Sir W. TemjAe. 

Life: 

Life is a ball-room, whose guests are constantly pouring in at 
the front door and out at the back door, without apparent diminu- 
ation of the number within; who are neither less gay or more 
miserable on account of the perpetual entrance and exit of the two 
thresholds of Time and Eternity. And whoever looks into that 
ball-room in ages to come, will find its youth still as bouyant, as 
graceful, and as beautiful as ever, just as happy and unconcerned 
as if death never had occured and never would occur upon earth ! 



SAYINGS OF THE SAGES. 403 



Oh life! the fascinating disguise with which youth invests thee is 
thy most precious amulet; for it is their hands that encircles thy 
blooming fields with those gorgeous curtains which veil from the 
eye of consciousness the rough scenery that lies beyotd — its re- 
treating storms, its portentous clouds, its mournful retrospect, and 
its painful future ! 

The web of our life is of a miDgkd yarn, good and ill to- 
gether; our virtues would be proud, if our faults whipped them not; 
and our crimes would despair, if they were not cherished by our 
virtues. — Shakeajyeare. 

A man's life is a tower with a staircase of many steps, that, 
as he toileth upward, crumble successively behind him. 

Living": 

We live in deeds, not years; in thouglits, not breaths; 
In feelings, not in figures on a dial. 
We should count time b.v heart-tbrobs. He most lives 
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best. 

— Festus. 

Love: 

Love is to the heart what summer is to the year, — it brings 
to maturity its choicest fruits. 

Love is the greatest instrument of nature, the bond and 
cement of society, the spirit and spring of the universe. Love is 
such an affection as cannot so properly be said to be in the soul, 
as the soul to be in tbat; it is the whole man wrapt up into one 
desire. — Dr. South. 

Memory: 

Memory might be compared to a cistern, which retains all 
that it receives; but imagination to a spring, which can never be 
exhausted. 

Misfortune: 

Eelieve misfortune quickly. A man is like an egg — the 
longer he is kept in hot water the harder he is when taken out 
of it. 



404 LEISURE HOURS. 



Modesty: 

A modest person seldom fails to gain the good will of those 
lie converses with, because nobody envies a man who does not ap- 
pear to be pleased with himself. — Steele. 

Money: 

Money is a good servant, but a dangerous master. — Bouhours. 

Nobility: 

A noble heart, like the sun, showeth its greatest countenance 
in its lowest estate. — Sir P. Sidney. 

Old Ag-e: 

Winter, which strips the leaves from around us, makes us see 
the distant regions they formally concealed; so does old age rob us 
of our enjoyments, only to enlarge the prospect of eternity before 
us. 

Opportunity: 

He that waits for an opportunity to do much at once, may 
breathe out his life in idle wishes, and regret in the last hours his 
useless intentions and barren zeal. 

Passion: 

He submits himself to be seen through a microscope who 
suffers himself to be caught in a passion. 

Past Favors and Injuries: 

The memory of past favors is like a rainbow, bright, vivid, 
and beautiful; but it soon fades away. The memory of injuries is 
engraved on the heart, and remains forever. — Haliburtou. 

Pastor: 

One of the saddest things about human nature is, that a man 
may guide others in the parh of life without walking in it himself 
— a pilot, and yet a castaway. 

Peace: 

Peace is the evening star of the soul, as virtue is its sun ; and 
the two are never far apart. 



SAYINGS OF THE SAGES. 405 

Pepfection: 

God never made bis work for man to mend. — Dryden. 

Perseverance: 

The patient mule, which travels night and day, will, in the 
end, go farther than the Arabian courser. 

Perseverance is failing nineteen times, and succeeding the 
twentieth; but when you do succeed, good gracious me, how the 
applause does come down ! 

Pity: 

Pity is the virtue of the law, and none but tyrants use it 
cruelly. 

Pleasure: 

When we drink too deeply of pleasure, we find a sediment at 
the bottom, which pollutes and embitters what we relished at first. 

Pleasure may be called the short cut to the tomb, as it short- 
ens time, which is the way. 

Politeness: 

Politeness is the outward garment of good will; but many are 
the nutshells in which, if yoa crack them, nothing like a kernel is 
to be found. 

Politeness is like an air-cushion; there may be nothing solid 
in it, but it eases the jolts of the world wonderfully. 

Praise: 

Praise the fineness of the day when it is ended; praise a 
woman when you have known her ; a sword when you have proved 
it; a maiden after she is married; the ice when once you have 
crossed it; and the liquor after it is drunk. 

Prayer: 

The Eachel of the soul, by which it draws water out of the 
wells of salvation. 

The hallowed pathway by which the soul reaches its God. 



40C LEISURE HOURS. 



The carrier dove of communication between the Christian and 
his God. — Family Friend. 

Let prayer be the key of the morning and the bolt of the eve- 
ning. — Henry. 

Precept and Example: 

Precept and example, like the blades of a pair of scissors., 
are admirably adapted to their end when conjoined. Separated, 
they lose the greater portion of their utility. 

Prejudices: 

Few people look on any object as it really is, but regard it 
through some fantastic prism presented by their own prejudices, 
which invests it with false color. 

Pride: 

A weed which often grows the highest in the lowest situation 

A transparent varnish used by fools to cover their defects. 

A display without, to celebrate the dearth of common sense 
within. — Family Friend. 

Pride is as loud a beggar as want, and a great deal more saucy. 
When you have bought one fine thing, you must buy ten more, 
that your appearance may be a U of a piece ; but it is easier to sup- 
press the first desire than to satisfy all that follow it. — Frauklin. 

Promise: 

A promise is a just debt which should always be paid ; for 
honor and honesty are its security. 

The greatest of human misery may be reduced to two words — 
broken promises. 

Prudence: 

Prudence, through the ground of misery, cuts a river of 
patience where the mind swims in boats of tranquility along the 
stream of life until she arrives at the haven of death, where all 
streams meet. 



SAYINGS OF THE SAGES. 407 

It is not what we earn, but what we save, that makes us rich. 
It is not what we eat, but what we digest, that makes us fat. It is 
not what we read, but what we remember, that makes us learned. 
All this is very simple, but it is worth remembering. 

Purity and Truth 

Purity is the feminine, truth the masculine, of honor. — Hare. 

Quarrelling': 

Quarrels would never last long, if the fault were on one side 
only. 

Rashness: 

That's a valiant flea that dare eat his breakfast on the lip of a 
lion. — Shakesjieare. 

Reading: 

To read without reflecting, is like eating without digesting. 

Reason: 

When a man has not a good reason for doing a thing, he has 
one good reason for letting it alone. — Scott. 

Reason is a very light rider, and easily shook off. — Swift. 

Religion: 

A man devoid of religion is like a horse without a bridle. — 
From the Latin. 

The appearance of religion only on Sundays proves that it is 
only an appearance. — J. Adams. 

Remorse: 

Where there is remorse, there may be penitence. — Rev. T. 
Binney. 

Repentance: 

Kepentance, a salve, a comfort, and a cordial; 
He that hath her, the keys of heaven hath; 
This is the guide, this is the post, tbe path. 

— Drayton. 



408 LEISURE HOURS. 



Reputation: 

The purest treasure mortal times afford. 

Its spotless reputation; that away, 

Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay. 

— Shakespeare. 

An honest man is believed without an oath, for his reputa- 
tion swears for him. 

Resolutions: 

Eesohitions taken without thought bring disasters without 
remedy. He who behaves hke a fool repents like a wise man. — 
Basile. 

Self-Relianee: 

Self-reliance is a noble and manly quality of the character ; 
and he who exercises it in small matters schools himself by that 
discipline for its exercise in matters of more momentous importance. 

Sensitiveness: 

A great deal of discomfort arises from over-sensitiveness about 
what people may say of your actions. This requires to be 
blunted. 



Shadows: 



Follow a shadow, it still flies you; 
Seem to fly it, it will pursue. 

— Btn Jonson. 



Silence: 

Silence is a thing which is often difficult to keep, in exact pro- 
portion to the necessity of doing so. 

Fellows who have no tongues are often all eyes and ears. — 
Halihurton. 

Sometimes, to unkindness and injustice, silence may be safer 
than even the soft answer which turneth away wrath. 

Silence is the safest course for any man to adopt who distrusts 
himself. 



SAYINGS OF THE SAGES. 409 

Sin: 

There is more bitterness following upon sin's ending, than 
ever there was sweetness flowing from sin's actions. You that see 
nothing but well in its commission will suffer nothing but woe in 
its conclusion. You that sin for your profits will never profit by 
your sins. — Dyer. 

8in is never at a stay; if we do not retreat from it, we shall 
advance in it; and the further on we go, the more we shall have to 
come back. — Barrow. 

Sin and punishment are like the shadow and the body — never 
apart. — Anon. 

Sincerity: 

Sincerity is a rare virtue. The man who uses it, even to my 
rebuke, shall be my friend; while flatterers shall be regarded as 
plotting against my interest and my life. 

Slander: 

Against slander there is no defense. Hell cannot boast so 
foul a fiend, nor man deplore so foul a foe. It stabs with a smile. 
It is a pestilence walking in darkness, spreading contagion far and 
wide, which the most wary traveler cannot avoid. It is the heart- 
searching dagger of the assassin. It is the poisoned arrow whose 
wound is incurable. It is as fatal as the sting of the deadly asp; 
murder is its employment, innocence its prey, and ruin its sport. — 
The Moralist. 

The worthiest people are the most injured by slander, as we 
usually find that to be the best fruit which the birds have been 
pecking at. 

Sleep: 

Sleep is death's younger brother, and so like him that I 
never dare trust him without my prayers. — Sir T. Browne. 

Solitude: 

All weighty things are done in solitude, that is, without soci- 
ety. The means of improvement consists not in projects, or in 



410 LEISURE HOURS. 



any violent designs, for these cool, and cool very soon, but in 
patient practicing for whole long days, by which I make the thing 
clear to my highest reason. — Jean-Paul EicJiter. 

Solitude is only beneficial to the wise and the good; it is ter- 
rible to the bad. 

Sorrow: 

Sorrows remembered sweeten present joy. — Pollok. 

Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted. — 
St. Matthew. 

Any mind that is capable of a real sorrow is capable of good. — 
— Mi's. Stowe. 

Sorrow seems sent for our instruction, as we darken the cages 
of birds when we would teach them to sing. — Jean Paul. 

Night brings out stars, as sorrows show us truths. — Philip 
James Bailey. 

Sorrows are the pulses of spiritual life; after each beat, we 
pause, only that we may gather strength for the next. 

Storms: 

As storm following storm, and wave succeeding wave give 
additional hardness to the shell that incloses the pearl, so do the 
storms and waves of life add force to the character of man. 

Streng'th: 

Necessity is the strongest thing which makes men face all the 
dangers of life. 

Success: 

Success is the child of cheerfulness and courage. 

If you wish success in life, make perseverance your bosom 
friend, experience your wise counsellor, caution jour elder brother, 
and hope your guardian genius. 

Success produces confidence, confidence relaxes industry, and 
negligence ruins that reputation which accuracy has raised. 



SAYINGS OF THE SAGES. 



411 



Suspicion: 

Suspicions among thoughts are like bats amongst birds, they 
ever fly to twilight ; they are to be repressed, or at least well guarded, 
for they cloud the mind. — Lord Bacon 

Suspicion is a heavy armour, and 

With its own weight impedes more than it protects. 

— Bryan. 

Suspicion disposes kings to tyranny and husbands to jealousy. 
— Lord Bacon. 

Tales: 

I know not which is the worse, the bearer of tales, or the re- 
ceiver; for the one makes the other. We should no less hate to tell 
than to receive slanders. If we cannot stop other months, let us 
stop our own ears. The receiver is as bad as the thief. 

Tears: 

There is a sacredness in tears. They are not the mark of 
weakness, but of power. They speak more eloquently than ten 
thousand tongues. They are the messengers of overwhelming 
grief, of deep contrition, and of unspeakable love. 

Tears and Laug-hter: 

God made both tear and laughter, and both for kind purposes; 
for as laughter enables mirth and surprise to breathe freely, so tears 
enable sorrow to vent itself patiently. Tears hinder sorrow from 
becoming despair and madness; and laughter is one of the very 
privileges of reason, beicg confined to the human species. — Ljeigh 
Hunt, 

Temptation: 

He who has no mind to trade with the devil should be so wise 
as to keep from his sho^.— South. 

Temptation is the fire that brings up the scum of the heart. 

Temptations are a file which rub off much of the rust of self- 
confidence. 



412 LEISURE HOURS. 



Temper: 

Temper, like the unseen, but busy, subterranean fires in the 
bosom of a volcano, is always at work where it has once gained an 
existence, and is forever threatening to explode, and scatter ruin 
and desolation around it. Parents ! beware how you omit to check 
the first evidence of its empire in yo-ur children; and tremble, less 
the powerless hand, which is only lifted in childish anger against 
you, should, if its impotent fury remain uncorrected, be aimed in 
future life with more destructive fury against its own life, or that 
of a fellow creature. 

Thoug-hs: 

Beautiful it is to understand and know that a tbought did 
never yet die; that as thou, the originator thereof, has gathered it 
and created it from the whole past, so thou wilt transmit it to 
the whole future. It is thus that the heroic heart, the seeing eye o^ 
the first times, still sees and feels in us of the latest, that the wise 
man stands ever encompassed and spiritually embraced by a cloud 
of witnesses and brothers ; and there is a living literal communion 
of saints wide as the world itself, and as the history of the world. 
— Carlyle. 

Guard well tliy thought; — 
Our thoughts are heard in heaven. 

— Young. 

Second thoughts are the adopted children of. experience, - 

Time: 

The prudent use of time, rather than the extraordinary natural 
power, has been the secret success in a vast majority of instances 
among those who have been distinguished for extraordinary results. 

Time is an old novehst, who takes pleasure in printing his 
tales on our countenance.. He writes the first chapters with 
swan's down, and engraves the last with a steel pen. 

To-morrow: 

The day on which idle men work, and fools reform. 



SAYINGS OF THE SAGES. 413 

Usefulness: 

The usefulness of man is not to be estimated by the length of 
time during which he is employed, but by the character of the 
resources, powers and qualifications, which he combines and puts 
vigorously in operation, while he is engaged in any undertaking. 
Some men will be more useful in an hour than others will in a 
year. 

Vag-rant: 

Beware of those who are homeless by choice! You have no 
hold on a human being whose affections are without a tap-root! — 
Southey. 

Valour: 

The muscle of tlie mind. 
Courage to stand alone. 

Vigilance: 

Chance will not do the work. Chance sends the breeze; 

But if the pilot slumbers at the helm, 

The very wind that wafts us towards the port 

May dash us on the shelves. The steersman's part 

Is vigilance, or blow it rough or smooth. 

Virtue: 

Virtue, like a dowerless beauty, has more admirers than fol- 
lowers. 

He who beholds the faults of others through his own virtue 
is always disposed to forgive them; indulgence is the child of 
purity of heart. 

Virtue is made for difficulties, and grows stronger and brighter 
for such trials. 

Vows: 

Make no vows to forbear this or that; it shows no great 
strength, and makes thee ride behind thyself. — Fuller. 

Lovers' vows at an evening party are but paper hoops, held up 
one moment, and broken through the next. 



414 LEISURE HOURS. 



Wants: 

We are ruined, not by what we really want, but by what we 
think we do; therefore never go abroad in search of your wants. 
If they be real wants, they will come home in search of you ; for 
he that buys what he does not want, will soon want what he can- 
not buy. — Colton. 

Wealth: 

Wealth is not acquired, as many persons suppose, by fortu- 
nate speculations and splendid enterprises, but by the daily prac- 
tice of industry, frugality and economy. He who relies upon 
these means will rarely be found destitute, and he who relies upon 
any other will generally become bankrupt. — Wayland. 

The way to wealth is as plain as the way to market ; it de- 
pends chiefly on two words — industry and frugality; that is, waste 
neither time nor money, but make the best use of both. Without 
industry and frugality nothing will do, and with them every- 
thing. — Franklin. 

Wife: 

No condition is hopeless where the wife possesses firmness, 
decision and economy. 

A wife of full truth, innocence and love is the prettiest 
flower a man can wear next to his heart. 

Wisdom: 

Wisdom is a palace of which only the vestibule has yet been 
entered. 

Wisdom is an ocean that has no shore ; its prospect is not 
terminated by a horizon ; its center is everywhere, and its circum- 
ference nowhere. 

The sublimity of wisdom is to do those things living which 
are to be desired when dying. — Jeremy Taylor. 

Woman: 

There is in every true woman's heart a spark of heavenly fire 
which lies dormant in the broad daylight of prosperity, but which 



SAYINGS OF THE SAGES. 415 

kindles up, and beams and blazes, in the dark hour of adversity. — 
W. Irving. 

Women have a mudi nicer sense of the beautiful than men. 
They are by far the safer umpires in the matters of propriety and 
grace. A mere school-girl will be thinking and writing about the 
beauty of birds and flowers, while her brother is robbing the nests 
and destroying th& flowers. 

A man cannot possess anything that is better than a good 
woman, nor anything that is worse than a bad one. — Sinumides. 

A woman has two smiles tha- an angel might envy; tue smile 
that accepts the lover afore words are uttered, and the smile that 
lights on the first-born baby, and assures him of a mother's love. — 
Haliburton. 

Women always have found, and always will find, their bitter- 
est foes among their own sex. — The Cigar. 












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